The Return
by dragonmactir
Summary: Current characters: Loghain/Cousland, Surana, Brosca, Varric, Anora/Alistair, Merrill, Isabella, Fenris, Aveline/Donnic, Tabris, Flemeth. Loghain Mac Tir returns from Orlais after being relieved of his service in the Wardens through mysterious offices, just in time to help the King, Queen, and Hero of Ferelden (Cousland) put down the Empress' renewed "interest" in Ferelden.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_, though given the mildly changeable nature of what is considered "canon" and my own rather radical ideas about how things should be, spoilers should be fairly mild and the story can probably stand relatively well on its own even without prior knowledge of these events.

**A/N:** I made Loghain tall not because that's the way I prefer him - I actually like the idea of him being somewhat average in size, making up in attitude what he lacks in physical presence - but there is precedent to think he's big (in The Stolen Throne his father is described as a giant of a man, and we're never quite assured that Loghain isn't) and big is very impressive to children so I felt making him a large man plus the big sword would be the draw that pulls Duncan into that back alley.

**A/N for the benefit of those who read my **_**Psych **_**fics and hope to learn what's up:** I'm currently working on a Lassiet that isn't going well mainly because I really, REALLY need new episodes or at least some fresh ideas beyond simply making Lassiter and Juliet hook up because "Shules" makes me want to puke. I've suffered long enough, I feel, so I'm clearing my palate with a little _Dragon Age _fic whilst brainstorming, though unfortunately all the stuff I've done in this fandom that was lost when my computer crashed is far better than this (ain't it always the way?).

* * *

**Chapter One: A Chance Encounter in the Lower Market**

He'd hid himself in the junction of the back of the tavern and the adjacent warehouse to escape the bitter cold wind and passersby both while he rested and ate the apple he'd bought from the stall around the corner, but there was no place safe from the inquisitiveness of a child and it did not surprise him when a boy, eight or nine years old perhaps, skipped up to him and squatted on his hunkers just past arm's reach and blinked owlishly at him. The quality of the boy's clothes _did_ surprise him a bit, for this was the lower market and most children were dressed rough.

"Are you a soldier?" the boy asked after a time, big blue eyes fixated on the heavy shield and dragonbone longsword that rested beside the big man.

He cocked a forbidding black brow at the lad and deliberately cut a slice of apple with the wicked silverite blade of his skinning knife. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that you shouldn't speak to people you don't know?"

"All the time," the lad said easily, and plopped onto the cobbles in an attitude of absolute trust. The big man stared for a moment, then burst out in a hearty laugh. He popped the apple slice into his mouth and cut a larger quarter.

"You're a bold pup, I'll give you that," he said, and handed the boy the piece of apple. "You don't look like you belong in the lower market, though. Having a bit of illicit adventure, lad?"

The boy thanked him beautifully for the bit of fruit, and blushed at the insinuation that he was out of bounds. "I…sneaked away from my nurse when she was looking at silks in the upper market. Looking at _girls' things _is boring, and papa will just laugh about it later. Mama will scold, but she's busy with the baby so it'll be all right. _Are_ you a soldier?"

"I was once, long ago. Now I'm just a wanderer. Your papa won't laugh if _harm_ comes to you, and the low market is dangerous. Particularly for little boys who look like they come from wealthy families and who are so incautious as to stop and chat with large, heavily armed strangers."

The boy grinned, showing a mouthful of fine white teeth. "If you were a bandit or a ruffian, Ser, I should not have stopped. I'm not _completely _without sense, as my mama says."

The big man smiled, unable to help it in the face of the lad's infectious easy joy, but there was sadness in his smile. "Ah, but my lad, I've _been_ the one, and I'll always be the other. So you see your perceptions are not so clear as you think. What's your name?"

"Duncan, Ser. And I don't believe you are a bandit or a ruffian, for if you were, why would you tell me so?"

"Well, Duncan, perhaps I would tell you because I knew you would not believe me if I did," he said with an air of asperity and aged wisdom thinly veiling a deep vein of humor. The boy seemed to recognize that humor and smiled in response.

"I saw you buy that apple," the boy said. "Apples are expensive this year, since the harvest was so bad. And still you shared it with me. Why would a bandit share, and why would he not steal the apple?"

"Logical. You are a learned man, Duncan?"

"I have a lot of tutors, if that's what you mean, Ser."

"And are you a good student?"

The boy winced slightly. "Yes, Ser. I try to be, anyhow."

"Keep on trying. Education is a gift not many children receive, and the ones who do seldom appreciate until it's too late," he said with a wink. "You evidently know how to amuse yourself in your free hours, since you're clearly the adventurous sort."

"Are you educated, Ser?"

"Not particularly. And not when I was a child. It's much harder to pick up book learning when you're grown, but I did my best."

"You _speak_ like you're educated."

"My life has been quite the education on its own. Unfortunately I am rather a dull scholar, and am still learning." He wiped the blade of his knife clean on a red bandana he pulled from his deep coat pocket. "Don't you think you'd better get back to your nurse now, Ser Duncan? I dare say she's through looking at _girls' things _and is probably searching for _you_ by this time."

"No, she'll finish her shopping before she comes looking for me," Duncan said easily. "She has to find some things for Baby Anora."

The big man seemed momentarily taken aback by the name. "That's your sister?" he inquired after a moment.

"Yes, Ser. She's cute, but she's too small to be much fun," the boy said, and made a face. "And sometimes she smells bad."

"Babies often do. Tell me, Duncan-brother-of-Anora, how did you happen to come by your names? Both seem to me rather familiar in some way."

"Well, Ser, I was named for a man my papa served under when he was a Grey Warden, and my sister is named for our mama."

"So your father was a Warden and your mother is named Anora," the man said, with a strange, almost hopeless note in his voice the boy couldn't figure out. "So that means _your_ name, Ser, is actually _Prince _Duncan…doesn't it?"

The boy's face fell. "Well, yes Ser, it is. But I'd rather not be called that, if it's all the same, please."

"It is _not _all the same, my Prince. And now I _know_ you must return to your people; you should not be out of the care of your attendants."

The big man rose to his feet and gathered his things. The shining silverite knife, with its ornately carved halla horn hilt, he sheathed in its ancient but well-tended scabbard and, briefly evincing indecision, handed it to the boy. "For you, my prince."

"Ser, I…thank you, but I can't…"

"My father gave this knife to me," the big man said, "when I was not much bigger than you. I've been able to count on that blade when everything else in the world failed me, and it will give me satisfaction to think that now it will be there for _you."_

The boy stood slowly and accepted the offered tool. "Well I can't say I understand, Ser, but thank you. Thank you very much."

The big man placed his big hand gently on top of the boy's golden curls for a brief moment, and then with a light caress chivvied the young royal toward the head of the alley. "Speak to the guard sergeant standing on the corner, my prince," he said. "He'll see you back to your people. I am very pleased, your highness, to have met you."

"Wait, what's your name, Ser? You never told me."

The big man smiled, as sadly as before. "I have no name, my prince."

"Everyone has a _name."_

"I had one once, but I fear that I lost it, your highness." And the big man disappeared behind the warehouse and was gone into the forbidden back alleys of the Alienage in an instant.

A little downhearted from this exchange, Prince Duncan obediently went to the city guardsman posted near the tavern doors and received his assistance in returning to his nurse in the high market. That worthy woman scarcely acted as though she had noticed his absence, but she broke off the rest of her shopping expedition and took the prince home to the palace, where he was immediately swept into the strong arms of his father, King Alistair.

"Well, my little man, what mischief have you been havocking, to bring nursey back from the market before she's finished shopping?" he said, with a kiss.

"I wandered into the lower market, papa, and the city guard had to bring me back," Duncan confessed.

As predicted, his father's response was a hearty laugh. "What a scapegrace you are! And won't your mother scold? Come sit with papa, my boy, and tell me of your adventures while your nurse finishes her outing without your merry hindrance."

Without a care for propriety the King carried his son into the vast throne room and sprawled across the royal seat with the child on his knee. Gravely, Duncan took the knife from his pocket. "I must tell you about the man I met, papa."

"So you must, particularly if you took that rather expensive-looking blade from his person," Alistair said, still merrily, but with a look of worry on his ingenuous features.

"He gave it to me, papa, once he realized I was the prince. I tried to put him off, but he was insistent. He told me that it would give him 'satisfaction' to think I had it. I believe the knife was very special to him, he said his father gave it to him when he was small. I'm not sure why he would be so happy to think of _me_ having it, since I'm nothing to him."

"You're a prince, my little man, and I've told you how it may be sometimes; good and loyal sons and daughters of Ferelden feel quite protective of you, and want to know you are safe and well. After all, there were fears that your mother and I would never be able to produce an heir of our own."

"But he said it would make him _happy_, papa, and yet he seemed so sad. I wanted to be able to cheer him, but he walked away from me. I'm worried about him, papa, for I think he had no home."

"I think perhaps you'd best tell me the whole story, my son."

And so he did, and as he did his father's face grew more and more thoughtful. "Let me see your knife, my boy, while I think on it, for I confess myself as puzzled as you by this exchange."

The prince handed over the scabbard, and King Alistair drew the knife out of it. "This is a fine piece of work," he said. "This blade couldn't have come cheaply even today, and it looks old enough to have been made during the Occupation when silverite was doubly dear and hard for a Ferelden citizen to acquire. Are you sure this man was native?"

"Oh yes, papa, he spoke the King's tongue and had…kind of a southern accent," Duncan said, but he said it doubtfully.

"What do you mean 'kind of,' my boy?"

"I'm not sure, papa. Have you ever heard someone talk like they were from the west of Ferelden _and _the south?"

"Sometimes, my boy, when they lived in one bannorn as a child and many years in another bannorn when they were older, the new region's accent kind of 'overlays' the old without completely replacing it."

Duncan nodded, his face cleared with understanding. "That was the way he was, then. He had a growly western accent with a barky southern accent on top of it."

Alistair laughed at his son's description of Ferelden regional accents, but a moment's thought marked it an accurate assessment: in the west, people living huddled in the foothills of the Frostback mountains spoke in deep, throaty voices with a bit of a Clayne brogue. In the south, particularly in the deep south like Gwaren, people tended to speak in high, sharp tones and bit off their consonants aggressively. Trying to imagine what the two accents would sound like combined was difficult, but a particular voice he had not heard in many years edged its way into his thoughts unbidden. Disturbed, he turned the blade over in his hands. A carving on the hilt caught his eye, and he nearly dropped the knife into his lap in his surprise, which would have put paid to the possibility of his producing any further heirs to the kingdom. Carved just below the pommel in elegant script was a name and a date: "Loghain; 8:91." Below that, etched smaller and plainer, were the words, "with your father's love."

"Did this man tell you his name?" Alistair asked, alarming his son more than a little with his sudden paleness of skin.

"No, papa. I asked, but he said he'd lost it. How do you lose your name, papa?"

"You do something bad that doesn't suit it," Alistair said abstractedly. "What did he look like, this man?"

Duncan thought for a moment. "Well, papa, he was very big. Bigger even than you. And he was kind of pale, and he had long black hair going streaky gray and blue eyes."

"Blue like yours?"

"No, papa. Much lighter. Like the sky when it's cold out."

_Maker's breath, it _was _him, _Alistair thought, but all he said was, "What was he wearing?"

"A long, dark leather coat. I'm not sure what else he was wearing because he had it buckled shut. But he had a bow and quiver on his back, and he was carrying a big longsword and a huge shield like a big shiny kite."

"What was his heraldry?"

"He didn't have a picture on his shield, papa. But it was all scratched up like the pots when the scullery boys take the steel wool to them."

"Like he'd scrubbed off his heraldry."

The little boy shrugged. Alistair hugged him and sent him to the nursery, whereupon he immediately called the captain of the guard and swore out an arrest warrant.

"If he resists, don't force the issue. Stand down and set a watch on him. If he'll come quietly, bring him in, but _gently_, Captain. Don't rough him up or anything. Send word to me _directly _the moment he's in custody."

The Captain, a decade ago a young Sergeant nominally in charge of a mixed bag of illegitimate nobility and hand-picked hatchet men equally useless for patrolling the seedier areas in and around the lower market, looked worried but clicked his heels smartly and bowed himself out. Nervous and fretful in his own right, King Alistair threw himself back onto his unwanted throne thinking dark thoughts about himself, the big man in the lower market, and the Maker's troublesome sense of humor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Two: An Armistice of Convenience**

_I knew I should never have come to Denerim_, Loghain thought as he stepped out of the dockside pub and found a small regiment of city guardsmen advancing upon him, but the thought wrung a grim smile from him. He'd hoped to find penance and redemption with the Grey Wardens, but that was not to be. It would serve him well enough to find some degree of it in the bowels of Fort Drakon. At least it would be dying at _home_ rather than abroad. And hey, he'd gotten to meet his grandson, even if the boy would never know it.

"Loghain Mac Tir?" the nervous Captain said. "I have a warrant for your arrest, Ser, sworn out by King Alistair. I ask you to relinquish your weapons and come peacefully."

Loghain snorted softly. "If I refuse?"

"Then I am under orders from the King to allow you to."

Loghain laughed. "That kind of honesty doesn't serve, does it?"

"Please, Ser. I have no particular wish to arrest you, but His Majesty is His Majesty."

Loghain looked the Guard Captain over closely. "Kylon, isn't it? I recall when you were so desperate as to post bounties on the Chanters' board. It seems you've improved your lot since then. Good to see you survived the Blight."

The Captain looked uncomfortable and embarrassed, but nodded graciously. "The warrant, Ser…?"

"Ah yes, the warrant. Well, far be it from me to naysay the King of Ferelden." He dropped sword and shield and unslung his bow. "Guardsman, do your duty."

Kylon looked relieved. "Thank you, Ser." He gestured for some of his men to gather the discarded weapons. A contingent of guardsmen surrounded the elder warrior and he was escorted in that way to Fort Drakon, where he was put into a cell with a courtesy that most arrestees did not enjoy, and was left alone.

Loghain dropped onto the straw pallet that he supposed would be his bed if they left him alive long enough to sleep. So Alistair was to have his execution after all, and he hoped the boy took some comfort in it. He knew that _he_ would. He amused himself with wondering how it would be done while he waited for his sentence to be handed down. Most likely it would _not_ be public, which more or less ruled out hanging. There was the ever-popular rack, of course - he could see it from where he sat, looking as though it hadn't seen much use in recent years - but that particular implement wasn't all that effective on people in excess of six feet in height unless specially designed to accommodate the unusually tall, which was why the deceptively innocuous framing of the rack's corollary, a squeezing device, hung on the wall nearby. But Alistair, unless he had changed very much, had no taste for torture, and more likely than not he would simply be beheaded quickly and efficiently disposed of, ideally before Anora found out he was ever in Denerim. With luck, she'd never learn his fate and Alistair's marriage would continue in the peaceful armistice they seemed to have found with each other.

"I confess, I'm not sure whether I'm glad you allowed Captain Kylon to arrest you, or whether I'd rather you'd refused."

Loghain looked up from his contemplation of the blood-stained rack into the ghostly evocation of a lost friend in the face of Maric's illegitimate son on the other side of the bars. "The years seem to have been remarkably kind to you," Alistair continued. "I'd have expected someone your age would have gone to his Calling by now, but I suppose an old _dragon_ is tougher than an old _man. _Why are you here? The First Warden sent you to Montsimmard, and that was the last I heard."

Loghain spread his hands. "I'm not a Warden anymore."

"Really? Because I was under the impression that being with the Wardens was meant to be your chance at redemption, and simply _leaving_ them doesn't seem like much of an attrition."

"Indeed, you are correct. But unfortunately I wasn't given the choice. Have you ever heard this one before? Three men were sentenced to death by hanging, an Orlesian, an Antivan, and a Ferelden. They brought the Orlesian up on the gallows and gave him a chance to say his last words. He spit upon the platform and declared himself an innocent man. They put the noose around his neck and pulled the lever, but the platform didn't drop. 'The hand of the Maker has saved this man. Release him,' the magistrate demanded. Then they brought the Antivan up and let him have his say. 'I am guilty - screw you all!' he cried, and they put the noose around his neck. The lever was pulled but, once again, the platform refused to drop. Once more, the magistrate called it an act of the Divine and commanded the man's release. Then they brought the Ferelden up for his own last words. 'When I was down below I saw that there's a lot of rust on the release mechanism. If you oil it up, I think it'll drop just fine.'"

Alistair's lips twisted in a reluctant grin. "I believe I have heard that one before, yes, though I think it was the Orlesian who told everyone to go snog themselves."

"It may have been, I'm not that practiced at the art of telling jokes."

"Funny as it is, what is the point of that tale?"

"I was granted another stay of execution. The taint abandoned me, and so the Wardens have no use for me. Being as dumb as the Ferelden in the joke, I came home to have yet a third chance to put my neck properly in the noose."

"The taint…_abandoned_ you? What does _that _mean?"

"It means I am no longer corrupted. It happens, I gather, although it must be pretty blasted rare judging by their surprise. Against my better judgment I offered to chug another swallow of their bloody poison, but they seemed to feel, as the magistrate did, that it was the will of the Maker. Myself, I think it's more likely to have something to do with…whatever it was that saved the Warden when she slew the Archdemon, and I'm in the way of knowing that the Maker had nothing to do with _that."_

Alistair leaned in close to the bars. "What _did_ save the Warden, then? You know, or you couldn't be so quick in assuming that the Maker had nothing to do with it."

"I _don't_ know, but I expect I know more than you. The Marsh Witch had a hand in it, and despite how well it worked out for the Warden I'm sorry to say that I had another, though only the witch herself knows the hows and whys - and though it pains me to say it, I suppose it wasn't exactly my _hand_ that had anything to do with it after all. Suffice to say it was magic and leave it at that, for not even under torture will I ever relate the full details of _that_ particular unpleasant memory."

"The Marsh Witch? Wait - do you mean _Morrigan?"_

"Was that her name? The dark one that went about 'dressed,' in the loosest sense of the word, like a Chasind prostitute."

"Yes, that was Morrigan. You think she…_cured_ you, somehow?"

"Not _deliberately_, of course, but as an unexpected aftereffect of…of her 'ritual,' perhaps. The other possibility, I suppose, is that I simply developed some sort of immunity to the taint, but that seems less likely to me, given the circumstances. However it came to pass, I am no longer a Warden, and the Orlesians seemed quite happy to be rid of me, which I found unexpectedly hurtful, and so, having no other place to go, I wandered back to Ferelden. I kept to the quiet places for a time, avoiding people, but like the proverbial bad bit I suppose it was inevitable that eventually I should turn up in the Denerim market. I had a mind to see how far along the reconstruction had come and hear news of the kingdom, for I confess I've failed to keep current as I was unaware that there was an _heir to the throne._ It seems fitting, somehow, that the little devil would rat me out." He grinned.

"He didn't know who you were," Alistair said, apologetic despite himself.

"No, and I hope he still doesn't."

"He's a smart boy, and he'll figure it out once he finds the carving on the hilt of that knife you gave him."

The grin dropped off Loghain's face like he'd been punched. "Damnation. I'd forgotten that father inscribed it to me. I don't suppose there's a possibility you could carve that part out before he sees, is there?"

"Assuming he hasn't found it by now, is there any particular reason why I _ought?"_

"I didn't want to hurt the lad."

"And why would having his grandfather's hunting knife hurt him? Aside from the possibility that he might cut himself, that is."

"The knife isn't so sharp as the shame. I'd rather I'd never known the boy existed than to have him live with the knowledge that his traitorous grandfather was executed shortly after giving him a gift."

"Executed. Is that what you think I've had you brought in for?"

"What other purpose could you have with me? The Warden spared my life, and you made it clear that despite her machinations to put you on the throne, you very much resented the fact she bestowed upon me the so-called 'honor' of the Joining, to the point that, Blight or no, you refused to follow her a step further. Now at last is your chance to find justice for Cailan and Duncan and all the others who died at Ostagar, and in the chaos of the civil war."

Alistair took a step back from the cell bars and folded his arms across his chest. "Before the Landsmeet, I followed the Warden because somehow I _knew_, even though I'd only just met her, that she was smarter, stronger, and a better leader than I could ever dream of being. I followed her without compunction into a few situations I didn't exactly agree with because I trusted she knew better than I, and for the most part time has borne that assumption out. Time has also shown me certain…_evidences_ that I did not have at the time we faced you down at the Landsmeet that day, and I've come round to the opinion that perhaps in this instance as well she may have had the right of it. She saw something in you that was worth the effort of salvage, even though you stood with the man who slaughtered nearly her whole family, and I should have been adult enough to respect that decision even if I could not then understand it. I don't have the strength of character, I fear, to forgive you for your actions, Loghain, but I was wrong to resent your entry into the Wardens, and wrong to leave them for it."

Loghain gave him a long, considering look, then a huff of breath before he nodded and said, "I don't know that you're correct about the Warden's wisdom in sparing me, but thank you for suggesting it might be so. I would have met my death that day content at least in the knowledge that I left Ferelden in strong hands, but I found a certain dismay in the idea that my life's blood might splash my daughter as I died."

"Ah yes, your daughter. At last we come to the reason you're here." Alistair cocked his head to one side and chewed his lower lip as he appeared to chew over his words. "Although I could never have believed it when I married her, I have come to…care…deeply…about Anora. She can be rather brusque and is dreadfully impatient, has next to no sense of humor, and rides me harder than a dwarven bronto drover, but she is also a…remarkable…woman, the perfect example of a wise monarch for me to live up to, as well as the loving mother of my children, which means quite a lot to me as I never expected to be able to _have _children and she came to motherhood with some reservation. Duncan and Baby Anora are the joys of my existence. I am a man who is _happy_ in his family."

"And glad I am to hear it," Loghain said quietly. "Your children are fortunate in both mother _and _father, I think."

"Yes, well, whether I like it or not, _you too _are family, and though she doesn't speak of it often, it is clear to me that Anora misses you terribly, particularly now that she is a mother. I didn't exactly have a proper father in my life, though Arl Eamon did his best I know, so perhaps I'm not in a position to understand exactly what it is she misses so, but it doesn't matter as the end results are the same. The happiness of _my family _that I love more than life is not complete because my wife cannot share her children with her own mother and father. I cannot bring her mother back to life, but there _is_ something I can do about reuniting her with her father."

Loghain was silent for a moment, digesting that, then said, with a wry angle to his heavy black brows, "So you have him _arrested?"_

"I wanted the chance to speak to you without her knowledge. The fact that you allowed yourself to be taken into custody suggests that you are contrite, even if I doubt seriously the chances that you've become _submissive."_

"So what are you trying to say, exactly?"

"I'm saying that it seems to me fairly commonplace for a man to dislike his in-laws," Alistair said with a touch of growl in his voice. "I feel that I may have lost my senses, but if you'll pledge me your oath that you'll take no hand against the crown of Ferelden - meaning me, Anora, Duncan, or anyone else that might legitimately wear it one day - then I will take you from this place and restore you to the bosom of your family."

"'Pledge you my oath?' You would honestly take me at my word?"

Alistair sighed deeply. "For Anora's sake, yes. I would."

"Hmph. You _do_ love her, don't you?" He considered that for a moment, and then climbed up off the floor of the cell to take a knee. "Very well, my liege - I hereby pledge upon the tattered remnants of my honor and my everlasting love for my daughter that I will never take a hand against any legitimate heir to the throne of Ferelden, up to and including yourself. And while you are correct in assuming that I am not exactly what one might properly dub 'submissive,' I _do _hereby submit myself to your will as my rightful King, and you are welcome to toss me around at your whim and put me into all manner of humiliating and/or painful situations as you see fit."

Alistair let out a noisy breath. "That will do for the nonce, I suppose." He took the jailor's heavy ring of keys from where he held it beneath his arm and unlocked the door. "Don't make me regret this." It was difficult to say whether that plea was directed at his father-in-law or the Maker.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Three: A Cold Day in Denerim**

Anora sat rocking and stitching peacefully in the nursery while Duncan drew pictures of warriors and dragons and Baby Anora played with her building blocks and occasionally threw them at her mother or brother in a fit of baby pique. Struck in the shin with one such lightly flung missile, Anora's response was a thin, slightly unwilling smile. Maker save the King, his daughter had the bellicose personality of her maternal grandfather.

Alistair poked his head around the doorjamb only a few minutes after she had that thought, and rather shyly requested entrance into the shrine of babydom. That in and of itself was unusual, for the King reveled in the nursery and did a good deal to increase pandemonium and mischief with his willingness to join in with his children's games, and took it as a matter of course that after a long, hard day ruling the country, which he hated having to do, he should be allowed an hour or two to have full swing with his little ones.

"Yes, you may enter, of course you may, do come in," Anora said, with that dry smile that said she was aware her husband was having her on in some as-yet unspecified leg-pull.

"Anora, do you recall, some years ago, when you asked me if there was a possibility that I would allow your father to return to court someday, and I said quite jokingly that it would be a 'cold day in Denerim,' and you threw rather a large book of Antivan political reforms at me?"

She stabbed her needle savagely into the pinafore she was embroidering, though she still smiled. "Yes, I remember."

Alistair shivered theatrically and stepped out of the doorway. "Brr. Chilly in here, isn't it?"

A huge dark figure stepped in to fill the space he'd vacated, and at first Anora could not credit her own eyes. It _couldn't _be…

"Hey, that's the man I met in the market," Duncan said.

Anora rose slowly to her feet, allowing her needlework to fall unheeded to the floor. "Hallo, dear," Loghain said. "Motherhood suits you, it seems. You look well."

"Father…" she said. She made a valiant effort to maintain proper decorum befitting a woman who'd been queen for more than a decade and a half, but halfway across the floor her resolve broke and she covered the last ten feet or so at an undignified pace that called to mind the little girl with blonde pigtails who'd run to greet her father after a long absence. She threw her arms around his neck and he hugged her tight.

When he put her down she stepped back and looked him over critically. "You've gone gray," she said.

"Ha! That started happening around about the time you were born, not that I'm suggesting there's a correlation."

She continued to stare fixedly at him, not at the iron that had crept into his black locks over the years or even at the new lines in his hatchet-carved face, but at his clothes - a simple sleeveless jerkin of the style worn by the common Ferelden man-at-arms, padded but not particularly protective, and a heavy leather coat. "What?" he asked.

"I'm just wondering when was the last time I saw you in anything other than plate armor."

His only response was a noncommittal grunt.

Duncan came forward then, a look of reproach on his face. "Ser…you're my grandfather?" he asked. It sounded like an accusation.

"I…yes, my prince, I am."

"Why didn't you tell me so _before?"_

Loghain squatted down so that he was eye-to-eye with the boy. "I didn't know how, or whether I had any right."

The boy considered that for a moment, then said decidedly, "I suppose I forgive you, then. But you still should have said something, rather than walk away and leave me." He ran to his sister and dragged her forward by one arm. "This is Anora. Say hello to grandfather, Annie."

The little girl's chubby angel face twisted up into something ugly and baleful. She took the block she was chewing out of her mouth and threw it into Loghain's face with a powerful, _"No!"_ Loghain caught the block before it could strike him.

"Little spitfire, eh?" he said calmly. "Reminds me of someone else."

The little girl tore herself from her brother's grip and toddled as quick as her short little legs could take her straight for her father, who caught her up and held her tight. She hid her face in his chest and glared suspiciously at her grandfather with only one enormous blue eye visible.

"She's a trifle…willful," Anora the elder said with a note of apology in her voice.

"She's a daughter of Kings and Mac Tirs," Loghain said, standing up fairly easily considering the age of his knees. "In other words, my dear, you're doomed."

"I believe she's tired," Alistair said, though the triumphant note in his words indicated he was happy there was one other soul in the room who shared his mistrust of the former Teyrn. "I shall put her down for an N-A-P," he spelled, knowing his daughter's aversion to the n-word. Too bad for him, she had learned to spell that particular word. _"Noooooooo!" _she shrieked defiantly, the word trailing off only because she was borne away through corridors of thick stone walls that blocked the sound.

"She's got lungs, hasn't she?" Loghain observed.

"Alistair envisions a future for her as a proud shield maiden, terrifying her enemies with her powerful battle cry. He does get a bit out of sorts, however, when I make mention of the fact that that would be following in her grandfather's footsteps. He seems to think his own war cry as intimidating as yours, and I haven't the heart to tell him that his screams are a bit on the anemic side," Anora said.

"And what of this young man?" Loghain said, turning to Duncan. "Warrior or politician?"

"A bit of both, though I think his aspirations may include becoming a great artist as well," Anora said, and stroked her son's blond hair.

"Very ambitious. Do you draw, young prince, or paint, or what?"

"I should like to try my hand at sculpture, but mother says I mayn't do more than clay modeling until I'm older. I have some drawings - would you like to see them?" the boy said eagerly.

"I should like that very much, my prince."

The boy ran for the stack of papers he'd been working on with the boundless energy and enthusiasm of youth, causing his crusty grandfather, who'd lost his youth early and in a particularly difficult and dramatic fashion, to smile. The boy came skipping back again and, suddenly shy, showed his charcoal drawings of warriors and dragons.

"I've not an eye for art myself," Loghain admitted, "and I don't suppose I can tell good from bad, but these seem very well done to me. Your dragons in particular look terrifically fierce. I wonder that any warrior would have the courage to face them."

"Have you ever seen a _real_ dragon, grandfather?" Duncan asked.

"Yes, I have."

"Did you slay it?"

"Not myself alone." But he _had_ struck the killing blow, against both the shapeshifter Flemeth and the High Dragon worshipped by the cult of Andraste.

"Did it frighten you?"

"Dragons are frightening creatures, my prince."

"Mother, was that a proper answer?" Duncan asked.

"No, my son, but my father doesn't like to admit that he is human enough to feel fear."

Loghain's mouth twisted up into a reluctant grin. "Very well, since you require a _proper answer _that only a mortal man could give - yes, I was very afraid."

"And still you faced the dragon?"

"You do what you have to do, my prince."

Duncan pondered deeply for a moment, face drawn into a quizzical knot. "Grandfather…are you a Hero? I have read some histories that say you are, but I have read others that say you are not."

"No, my prince. I am no Hero. There was a time when I was seen as such, but I successfully proved history wrong."

"We will talk about this when you are older, Duncan," Anora said quickly. Her eyes telegraphed "shut up" at her father.

"I know - it was what happened during the Blight," Duncan said. "Because you abandoned the field at the Battle of Ostagar, and because the Banns stood against you, and because you stood against the Warden until she defeated you in single combat at the Landsmeet."

"Yes, my prince. That is exactly correct."

"But what I don't understand is _why_ that happened."

"I wish I had a good explanation for you, my prince, but unfortunately the only reason I have is that I was afraid."

"Of Orlais?"

"Yes."

"I'm afraid of Orlais, too."

"Duncan, whatever for?" Anora said.

The boy looked uncomfortable. "I know that you and papa don't want me to hear you when you speak of such things, mother, but sometimes I can't help it. I've heard you talking with your advisors about how some of the nobles in Orlais want the Empress to go to war against us." He drew himself up to his full four feet of height and looked as directly as possible at his tall grandfather. "If it happens, Ser, you will help father fight them off, won't you?"

"My boy, I don't know that he would welcome my assistance, or even that I should offer it. But your father is a great warrior in his own right - you needn't fear that he requires the help of an old man like me. With the troubles the Chantry is having with the templars and mages fighting, I don't think it likely that anyone is really seriously contemplating going to war right now anyway. They're all too worried about losing the Maker's favor."

He sent the boy back to his drawing, saying that he'd like a chance to speak to Duncan's mother. "You were in Orlais, father," Anora said quietly when they were alone. "Do you really think they won't attack?"

He sighed. "I left some months ago, you understand, but there was a growing voice amongst the ruling classes that called for invasion. Ferelden's defenses are still weak, the unblighted lands not fertile enough to keep our armies fed through an extended siege, and that with our own difficulties between templar and mage they expect us to be distracted enough to be easy pickings. They want our port cities back, and to erase the embarrassment of the Rebellion from the histories, and it seems they don't find Alistair nearly as willing to capitulate for peace as they evidently expected Cailan to be. They might have satisfied themselves with some sort of accord with him, but Alistair they'd prefer to crush."

"Celene is still treating with us," Anora said.

"And hopefully she has the strength to keep her wolves at bay," Loghain said, but his tone suggested he doubted it. "There are few in the Orlesian court that seem to agree with her diplomatic policies with regards to Ferelden. I know I shattered any illusion that I am capable of being objective with regards to the subject of Orlais, but I would be very surprised if they didn't move against us within the next few years. Perhaps sooner even than that."

"Alistair…is a fine warrior…" Anora said, with a crease of worry between her brows, "but he's bollocks as a tactician."

"Then it is fortunate that he has you."

"You _taught_ me, father, but I've never been _tested."_

He put a hand on her shoulder and smiled reassuringly, or at least it was meant that way. "Don't go buying trouble, my dear. I'm a bloody-minded old man and I've always been paranoid, particularly about the Chevaliers, so put the thought from your mind for now. There'll be warning enough if it ever comes to pass, and if worse really comes to worst I have faith in your brains, my girl. If I have any claim to intelligence at all you're a thousand times smarter than I."

"I will be sanguine, father, if I have your assurance that if they do invade you will help in any way you can - even if we cannot let Alistair _know _you're helping."

Loghain's smile became pained. "If I am able, Anora, I promise you, I will help."

* * *

That night, as she prepared for bed, Anora surprised Alistair with a rare unsolicited kiss. "Thank you, husband," she said. "I know this cannot be easy for you, and I am grateful. For the first time in years I feel as if the world was finally coming back around to something that feels like normal. I know you think my father must always have been a traitorous bastard, and I'll admit he's hardly the sweetest turd in the shithouse, but - "

Alistair laughed out loud. "'The sweetest turd in the shithouse?' Your majesty, that was a decidedly crass thing for such a fine queen as yourself to say."

Anora smiled. "I was taught the wiles of diplomacy by _your_ father, but _my_ father taught me how to fight and, if inadvertantly, how to curse." She picked up her brush and began smoothing out her long hair, though normally she would wait for her handmaiden Erlina to assist her with that. "In any event, what I was trying to say is, he's my father, and even if he isn't gentle I love him. I still can't quite wrap my mind entirely around what happened with the Couslands, and Arl Eamon, and the Alienage, and Ostagar...part of me thinks it must all have been _Howe's_ doing, and my father just another victim of the man's poison."

"Your father never exactly denied any of the charges against him, except for sending the blood mage Jowan to poison Arl Eamon."

"But you see, husband, it doesn't surprise me in the least that my father would accept blame for things he had no knowledge of provided he could see they'd happened. He would consider Howe under his charge, even if not his control, and my father always taught me that you are responsible for the actions of those under your command."

"Jowan said your father hired him _personally._ He recognized him from portraits."

"Which has always puzzled me greatly. My father considered sitting for portraits a waste of time and treasury money, and I've never seen a depiction of him that looks anything like him. Our _son_ didn't recognize him from his portraiture - could you?"

"They do seem...rather misinformed about certain features," Alistair admitted reluctantly. "Like the fact that he _isn't_ a dragon or a mabari hound, though in my opinion he could as easily be either."

"The portraitist King Maric hired to paint father took rather a dislike to him, for some unaccountable reason," Anora said, with a wry smile. "He went out of his way to make him as bestial as possible."

Alistair sighed. "So perhaps Jowan lied about who hired him, or perhaps he was mistaken. Mages don't get much political training, I know, even Templars are pretty well cut off from the goings-on of the outside world, so perhaps he was even hired by _Howe_ and only assumed in some way that it was Loghain, though the man wasn't a shadow of your father."

Anora put down her brush and squared off before her husband. "I would never ask you to trust my father, Alistair, not after what he did. Regardless of whether or not he was personally guilty of _every_ atrocity committed during the Blight he was certainly guilty _enough,_ and even _I_ cannot entirely forgive him for it. But he is a man of honor. He damaged that honor horribly by doing what he thought was necessary, but I can't believe he destroyed it utterly. Don't trust him, husband, but don't discard him. He could be a tremendous aid to us if...something untoward were to happen."

"An Orlesian invasion," Alistair said bluntly.

"There are other helps he could give us, husband, but yes. That is the worst-case scenario I believe it wise to plan for."

Alistair's mouth twisted into a moue of revulsion, but he said grimly, "I'll take it under advisement, my dear. Maker knows I'm no tactician, but somehow I find it difficult to place myself and my country in the hands of a man who betrayed my brother to his death."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Four: Fletching and Kvetching**

"What are you doing, grandfather?" Duncan asked, interestedly.

"Fletching," Loghain said, not intending to sound curt, as he wrapped eagle feathers to an ironwood shaft.

"But why?"

"Because I was running low on arrows."

"You could take some from the palace armory," Duncan pointed out. "Or buy them at the market."

"I prefer to do it myself." He continued his task in his steady way, and the boy pulled up a stool and perched himself precariously upon it to watch.

"Why do you wind the feathers around the shaft so?" Duncan asked. "That's not the way the royal fletcher does it."

"Which is why I prefer to do it myself," Loghain said, with a wry smile. He saw the boy was curious so he explained. "It's called rifling, lad - makes the arrow spin as it flies so that it goes truer and further. The Dalish do it so, which is one of the reasons why they're such deadly archers."

"Have you known any Dalish, grandfather?" the boy asked.

"I've encountered a few of them. Can't say I know anything much about them except their arrow-craft, and through painful experience at that." His smile broadened a trifle as he remembered the arrow that had gone almost all the way through his shoulder decades before.

"Father uses a crossbow, when he uses a bow at all," Duncan said. "He says its better than a longbow."

"Your father wears plate armor," Loghain said. "When I wear plate, I prefer a crossbow myself - a longbow requires more dexterity and range of motion to use properly. A crossbow also is not dependent upon the strength of the archer but upon the strength of the bowstring and the mechanism used for firing it, and doesn't require as much training to use well. Despite that, I still prefer a longbow when I have the space to use one. My father taught me to shoot, as his father taught him, and there's an involvement to drawing a bow and firing an arrow that I don't feel when shooting a bolt, and I'm never as accurate with a crossbow as a longbow. It's also very much slower to load a bolt and crank the bow than it is to knock and arrow and fire."

"Are you a good shot, grandfather?"

They were sitting beneath the low wooden roof that protected the preparation table and weapon racks in the training courtyard. Loghain picked up his longbow, knocked a freshly-fletched arrow, and fired - straight into the center of the head of one of the stuffed men set up as targets on the far side of the open space, a perfect shot at three times the distance the royal archers stood when they trained, and from a seated position. "Fair," Loghain said.

Watching from a narrow balcony two floors above, Alistair saw the shot and heard his son's excited shout. He ran a hand through his short blond hair and grumbled aloud.

"My son is lost to me."

"Nonsense," Anora said, not looking up from the papers she was reading.

"He is," Alistair insisted. "He doesn't care to spend time with _me_ anymore, your father is _far_ too interesting, with his arrows and his…_Archdemon-slaying."_

"Father is new to Duncan, and unknown, and like any child he is curious and no doubt anxious to win his regard. He hasn't _abandoned _you, Alistair, and he'll come back around once the new wears off."

Alistair continued to grumble under his breath for a time, and like a wise woman Anora chose to simply ignore him. "At least I have my daughter," he said at last in an audible tone, for Baby Anora still steadfastly refused to acknowledge her grandfather. Anora did not rise to the bait, and Alistair subsided.

Later that night, when the whole family was gathered in the nursery to talk and watch the children play, Baby Anora decided to assert her superiority over all other living beings and her utter disregard for sleep. Her defiant screams were sufficient to keep her nurse at bay when that long-suffering servant came to put her to bed, and even her mother found it difficult to approach in the face of such volume. Finally, after a particularly ear-shattering roar, Loghain roared back.

That was all, an inarticulate roar with neither sense nor threat in it, only a degree or so louder than the child's. It was sufficient to give the toddler pause, and she stared at him for a moment wide-eyed. Then she opened her mouth and roared again, louder, still with her gaze fixed wonderingly upon her grandfather. With a narrow smile curving one side of his mouth, he echoed her cry again, and louder still. The child took a deep breath and emitted the loudest roar she'd ever managed in her short life, only to have it overshadowed once more by a roar from her grandfather, a sound loud and terrible enough to make a dragon blink. The nurse fled in terror, and even Alistair caught himself cowering involuntarily.

Baby Anora did not cower. Indeed, as the sound faded into a ringing silence her little bow-shaped mouth split in a huge grin and she held out her arms. _"Up!" _she demanded of her grandfather imperiously. He lifted her into his arms and she snuggled against his shoulder, vanquished but happier about it than most so conquered. Loghain carried her to her room and tucked her into her crib himself.

Anora looked at her husband's comically tragic expression as he saw his last hopes dashed and couldn't stop herself from bursting into laughter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Five: The Calm Before the Storm**

Time passed, as it has a way of doing. The chaos within the Chantry increased until it seemed the Andrastian religion was destined to collapse completely, and fear for just such an unthinkable outcome kept the kingdom - and virtually every nation in Thedas - in turmoil. Despite the troubles, or perhaps because of them, the threat from Orlais grew ever more certain as days passed into months. Some said Celene would never allow her armies to attack, others claimed she was only pretending diplomacy in order to wait for the opportune moment to strike, and still others knew with sick certainty that regardless of whether the Empress's intentions were honorable or not, sooner or later the intrigues of the Orlesian court would catch up to her, and if she continued to refuse the demand for war she would find herself at the receiving end of an assassin's craft.

Alistair and Anora kept as much of this from their children as possible. Parents always make such efforts to shield their children from the horrors of the real world, and while some are better at it than others, few ever really succeed. At the very least children know when their parents are afraid, even if they don't quite understand the why, and it scares them.

Not having a hand in the running of the country, and with no men to train or strategies to plan, Loghain had little to do except whack away at scarecrows in the training courtyard, and so as the kingdom's troubles mounted and the King and Queen spent longer and longer days at court attempting to solve them, he slowly and somewhat reluctantly stepped into the role of Chief Babysitter for the prince and princess. He loved both his grandson and granddaughter dearly, and he'd enjoyed fatherhood very much, but he'd always felt more than a bit out of his element when it came to spending a lot of time alone with any child, up to and including his own. They made him feel clumsy and oversized, not to mention crass and occasionally stupid.

Keeping them active settled that last problem, for as long as he could forestall their endless and, to him, unanswerable questions then he would not have to reveal that his head had never been able to accept a great deal of learning beyond that which was necessary to swing a sword or read a map. The processes that went into making the sky blue, for instance, might potentially be of some value to _someone_, but had absolutely no relevance to _him_, and when Maric, insisting upon some formal education before making him over into high nobility, had attempted to clutter his mind with such things he had planted both heels and rebelled. "Why do I need to know what makes the bloody sky blue?" he'd demanded of his friend, "or whether the earth goes 'round the sun or vice versa? What possible difference could knowing such things ever make for me? It won't make me a better general and it won't make me a wiser Teyrn, if you're truly so set on this ridiculous idea of raising me." Maric smiled, shook his head resignedly, and set aside the books of natural philosophy in favor of books on politics and government, and the study of languages. Loghain never learned how to speak any other than his native tongue to any degree, but he learnt to understand well enough to know when foreign delegates were being duplicitous, which was all he cared about. And so when Duncan and Baby Anora were in his care the goal was basically to keep them too busy to talk, and wear them out so that they'd sleep until someone with answers, like their mother, came to hear their questions.

At first it was obvious that Alistair was not especially happy with the new arrangement, particularly when he found son and daughter laughing ecstatically on the back of a trotting pony, going round and around in a circle at the end of Loghain's lead rope, but as time went on and he saw no harm seemed to come of any of it, he began at last to relax his guard. He worried more about his daughter than his son, for Loghain behaved more gently toward the lad and seemed rather fierce toward the girl, but in the course of time he realized that far from being frightened, Baby Anora reveled in the roars and rough games. And he saw, too, the way the old warrior's hard features softened whenever he was with either child, and he recognized that the man truly adored his grandchildren.

In a rare respite from the cares of rule one day some months after Loghain's return to Denerim, Alistair and Duncan were together in the stables to greet the arrival of a litter of mabari pups born to the stable master's bitch. Duncan scratched behind the ears of one tiny blind puppy and said to his father, in a casual it-makes-no-nevermind-to-me-one-way-or-the-other voice, "I was wondering, father, if you might not teach me to ride a horse one day soon."

Alistair, who had never been on horseback a single time in his life, was too embarrassed to confess such to his son. "I don't know, Duncan, I'm awfully busy these days, and it seems to me you're a bit too small yet to ride a full-sized horse. I think perhaps you should stick with your pony for now. When you're older we'll see about getting the riding master to teach you proper."

"Oh. All right, then," Duncan said, as if he didn't really care, but the crestfallen expression on his face went straight to his father's heart. The boy excused himself shortly thereafter, as it was time for his afternoon lessons, but Alistair stayed in the stables awhile longer, looking over the horses and thinking dark thoughts about them, as though it were their fault he could not teach his son to ride.

"How about having the riding master teach _you_ proper?" The deep, harsh voice startled him out of his brooding.

"Andraste's ass, Loghain - how long have you been here?" Alistair demanded, blushing because he'd allowed the man to see him start.

"Long enough," Loghain said. He stepped out of the shadows, leading a tall, heavy-bodied charger. "Haven't got a whole hell of a lot else to do so I ride a lot. You, on the other hand, don't ride at all. Do you?"

"Ruling a kingdom takes up a lot of time," Alistair said with some asperity, attempting to cover his chagrin with pompousness. "Just because I don't ride to the hunt with the frivolous nobility doesn't mean I am unable to - "

"Your father was practically born on horseback," Loghain interrupted, "and the best that could be said of him by the time he died was that _most of the time _he didn't fall off. _You_ were treated more or less like a scullery boy at Redcliffe, and in all my years I've never seen a templar on a horse. You were never taught to ride."

There seemed no use in further denials, but Alistair could not meet the man's eyes when he mumbled, "No, I wasn't."

"Being your properly submissive half-captive and all I shouldn't say this, but a King that can't sit a horse is something of an humiliating statement for a nation. So I repeat: why not have the riding master teach you proper? Then you could teach your son to ride and not be embarrassed to speak of it."

"I don't have time," Alistair said defiantly, but he blushed again as he admitted, "and besides, the riding master would laugh."

Loghain considered that. "You're probably right," he confessed. He led the horse forward and patted its glossy chestnut neck. "But Stew-Bone here won't laugh, and I have no sense of humor that anyone's ever been able to detect. All you need to do is learn to get on a horse's back and off again without tripping or being caught up and dragged, and to sit on his back and not fall off the minute he starts to move, and then you could go to the riding master for proper lessons without feeling a stupid ass."

Alistair took a half-step forward, almost yearningly, but he said, "I'm not so sure I haven't detected at least the fainted trace of a sense of humor in you, Loghain."

"Well, perhaps I'm beginning at this late date to develop one, as it seems my life for the past decade or so has been something of a dirty punchline, but I promise you I shan't laugh."

The King took another half-step forward, like a stray dog who wants a kind master but is afraid of being whipped, and eyed man and horse warily but with hope in those hazel depths. "You'd…teach me the basics, then? So that I could at least keep my seat and not look a bloody fool?"

"No more than you usually look, at any rate," Loghain said, amiably enough.

Alistair didn't seem to notice the slight. He took yet another half-step and asked, "Why would you do that?"

Loghain sighed, fixed him with a steely eye, and said in a low, serious tone, "Duncan is _my grandson, _and he seems to have rather set his heart on having _his father _teach him to ride."

It occurred to Alistair then, with dawning wonder, that his children were the bridge connecting him to this man he was beginning to find it hard to hate, and that one day they might make it possible even for him to begin to forgive the transgressions of the past. Perhaps it was even already happening, too gradually to notice.

From then on, when they could find the time and the privacy, Alistair took lessons in horsemanship from Loghain. This tutoring usually took place after dark, as fears for the kingdom kept Alistair wakeful on many nights and Loghain seemed almost never to sleep. In time the King learned how to hoist himself into the saddle without too much awkwardness, how to dismount competently if not entirely with grace, and to sit upright and not feel as if he were about to plummet headfirst out of the saddle at any moment, but even then Loghain claimed he was simply too hopeless to risk the humiliation of public lessons, and the private tutoring continued. In truth, both men found these secret lessons something of a comfort, for different reasons. For Alistair, though he could not admit it even to himself except down very deep in his heart of hearts, they were somewhat fulfilling to the absence of a father figure he'd never in life felt so keenly as when he became a father himself, and for Loghain it was "something to do," for he was a man who did not thrive in stagnation. And Anora, who was not let in on the secret but who knew what was going on under her nose regardless, watched as both men learned more about each other than Alistair learned about horses, smiled triumphantly and said nothing.

On one moonlit ride along the Pilgrim's Path outside the city gates Alistair felt confident enough in both his saddle and his mind to ask something he'd wanted to for a long time.

"Did you…know my mother?"

"No," Loghain said tersely, and Alistair was abashed.

"Of course you didn't, that was a stupid question to ask. She was a Redcliffe serving girl, why would you have known her?"

Loghain looked over at him rather too quickly, the moonlight showing a strange expression on his face, but he looked back at the pommel of his saddle again before Alistair could begin to fathom it. "I never spent much time at Redcliffe, even before Eamon married."

"Wait - what was that look for? You know something, don't you? About my mother?"

"No, my King, I don't."

"You _do," _Alistair insisted. "Or at least you think you do. What is it?"

Loghain sighed. "I don't recall _Maric_ spending any great time there, either."

Alistair puzzled over that statement for a moment, then laughed. "I don't mean to sound boorish but I don't think it absolutely _necessary_ for him to have frequented the place. I'm told once is enough for some men."

"Aye, true," Loghain said, with a touch of a coarser, commoner accent creeping into his voice from beneath the time-polished tones of nobility, "but I have my doubts that it was Redcliffe your father was visiting during the time you must have been conceived, Your Majesty."

"What are you saying?" Alistair said, suddenly grave.

"I don't think the poor serving girl who died bringing forth a bastard son was really your mother. But I don't _know, _and Maker knows I should keep my suspicions to myself."

"You don't know? Did Maric never tell you who my mother was?"

"He said it was she who died. But he was never a particularly good liar, was Maric, and he looked a bit shifty when he said it. Then too it just never added up to me. Maric wasn't at Redcliffe once, to my knowledge, in the year before you mysteriously appeared there - looking a bit too large and strong for a newborn, in my humble opinion - and while it shames me to say he had something of a roving eye he wasn't a man the servants ever had fear of, if you catch my meaning. The man was in _mourning, _he had been for two years, and I never caught wind of any indiscretions in that time. Believe me, I was keeping watch."

"Wait - are you saying the King wasn't my father, either?" Alistair said, in some alarm.

"No, though I'd once had some hope of that, you are clearly Maric's son. But I don't think your mother was any serving girl. She existed, all right, but I believe she may have been only a convenient coincidence. If your real mother was who I think she was, it worked out well for Maric, and the kingdom, and even to some extent _you _that it happened that way."

"_You know who my real mother was?" _Alistair fairly shrieked.

"Calm yourself. Maker's breath, I wish you'd never brought it up, but now the cat is out the bag, so to speak, I suppose I can't plead ignorance and ask that you forget I ever said anything. Remember, Alistair - I _know_ nothing, I only suspect, and given our history you have good reason to feel most uncertain about things I only suspect. That year was the year Maric let the Grey Wardens back into Ferelden, and the first thing that happened was they came to us at the palace and asked for my help in a Deep Roads expedition to find the Warden Commander's missing brother. I didn't trust them and said so, and thus Maric offered to go instead, which I flatly refused to allow, and so that night without a word to anyone he snuck away with them - or at least that's what he told me happened. I was never entirely sure the Wardens didn't simply kidnap him."

"I don't understand."

"Maric spent an awfully long time in the Deep Roads with those Wardens, and three of them were women. One was rather elderly and ended up dead, another was a dwarf and seems to have vanished into the Deep Roads with some sort of intelligent Darkspawn, and the third…I don't know what ultimately became of her, but I know she survived the debacle that concluded that particular adventure."

"So you're saying that my mother was…may have been…a Grey Warden?" Alistair sounded awed. "Tell me about her - what was her name? What did she look like? Do you know anything about her at all? Did Maric tell you nothing?"

"_Calm yourself," _Loghain said again, more firmly. "Maric said little to me about any of it, which was odd enough to raise my suspicions still further, but I'll tell you what I do know of her, which I fear is next to nothing. Her name was Fiona, she was I suppose quite pretty, and she…she…" he cut himself off short and sighed.

"What? By Andraste's Holy Sword, man, _what?"_

"Understand, Alistair, that if what I say were to be repeated by anyone else your rule would be in serious question, even if the banns didn't immediately rise against you. Fiona…was an elf. She was also…a mage."

Alistair had been leaning across the space between their horses further and further in his eagerness to hear, and Loghain didn't notice in time to stop him from tumbling out of the saddle at the shock of those words. He dismounted and helped the King to his feet.

"I'm a…half-blood?" Alistair said weakly. "And a mage's son?"

"You understand now a bit better, perhaps, why Maric found it impossible to claim you," Loghain said, sounding disgusted even as he said it. "If you were the offspring of a King and a serving girl 'twouldn't be much said, most noble bastards have a few _literal_ bastards running about and more than one of the banns are the result of trysts between noble fathers and elven servants, but if it were known you had _mage_ blood then the Revered Mother was like to call an Exalted March upon Ferelden, bloody stupid bitch that she was. But as I said, even _I_ was never told the truth, if truth it was, so I don't know that anything I've said has credence."

"And yet it sounds so dreadfully easy to believe, somehow," Alistair said, and the moonlight reflected off his sickly smile. "Well. I feel rather as if I'd been in an earthquake."

"But you've survived it, and in time you'll get over it," Loghain said. "Know this: I don't care whether your mother was a mage or a servant or the bleeding Queen of Antiva, if Maric put her with child then Maric loved her. He wasn't terribly wise in his love, but he had a way of making even the worst people a bit more worthy somehow - take _me_ as proof of that - and I don't find it very difficult to suppose that she must have loved him as well. Was she a good person? That I can't say, for I did not know her."

"But did my father love _me?" _Alistair asked, and his voice was that of a lost child.

Loghain sighed. "He never spoke of it to me," he admitted, "but I believe he loved you. It seemed to me from that day forward that he carried a terrible sadness and regret, and I believe that it stemmed from the fact that he could not be the father you needed. He tried his best to make up for it by being a stronger and wiser King than he had been in years past. I regret to say it gladdened me, for there was a time it seemed Maric would simply fade out and leave me holding the reins, and no matter what you think I tried to do in the wake of Ostagar, I _never _aspired to the throne."

"Let's head back to the palace," Alistair said. "Will you help me into the saddle? I don't think I can quite manage it on my own just now."

"Of course, my King," Loghain said, and gave him a boost. They rode back to the city in silence.

"Hello, what's this?" Loghain said alertly as they passed through the gates to find the city streets ablaze with light and abuzz with activity.

"I don't know. You don't think someone could have…?" Alistair ventured nervously.

"Not a chance. I'd have seen or heard _something _if we were followed. No, this is something else."

He kicked his horse into a gallop until he caught up with a bustling soldier and demanded to know what was afoot.

"The Orlesians, m'Lord!" the man gasped, eagerly if inaccurately as Loghain was no longer entitled to an honorific. "Scouts from the western bannorn report an army advancing upon the border! We're being invaded, Maker save us!"

Loghain and Alistair shared a grim look. "Blast and damnation," Alistair swore. Reining in his excited mount, Loghain could not but agree with that assessment.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Six: War Drums**

Loghain was in attendance at the emergency consult Alistair called immediately thereafter because the King was too distracted to forbid it, the Queen would never think of it, and none of the other nobles present quite had the courage to deny him entrance. He paced restlessly at the back of the war room while frightened fools bickered and whimpered and made themselves a terrific headache.

"We don't have enough men," Arl Eamon said at last. "Your majesty, we've had recruiters out for months and still we can only manage to field perhaps five thousand men, most of them untrained. If the Chevaliers number only ten thousand we shall be lucky, from what the scouts report."

"Seems to me we often fielded rather _less_ than five thousand men during the Rebellion, and we still managed to win through," Loghain pointed out, unable to restrain himself any longer. "We defeated an entire bloody _Blight _with little more than that. Your Majesty, I don't ask to be put in command of men, or to speak strategy to you, but I beg of you, let me fight. Put me in back of some B-company, for all I care, but do not force me to stand idle and _safe_ while men rush headlong into war."

Alistair ruffled his scruff of hair distractedly. "Actually I was rather hoping you'd have some idea exactly how we are to take our five thousand untrained soldiers and defeat ten thousand or so top-of-the-line Chevaliers before they make it to our homes and fields. I hope you're not saying you won't help with that."

Loghain stopped short, with a near-comical look of surprise on his face. "Are you actually…saying that you'd like _me_ to suggest tactics?"

"Is there another man in this room with more experience at fighting vast numbers of Chevaliers with very little at his disposal?"

"Well, I…let me think a minute…" Loghain contemplated the scale model of the bannorn with its tiny figures of soldiers and cavalry. He ignored utterly the mutinous muttering of angry nobles indignant that the _traitor _should be put back in charge of their destinies.

"The scouts say the Orlesians are moving toward Sulcher's Pass, correct?" he said at last, as he dashed aside the figurines representing the armies and reset them to his own satisfaction. "That's a nice open space as far as passage through the Frostbacks goes, but it's not as open as Gherlen and it's going to funnel them, and all the nice open valleys are on the Ferelden side. If we managed to get there ahead of them, we could hold them there and their numbers wouldn't make as much difference to them as if we met them in the open bannorn."

"We'd never make it there in time," Arl Vaughan Urien declared. "Why, that's a good solid week's journey, and they've a jump on us."

Loghain looked at the man from under severely knitted brows. "A week for one fat fool riding in luxury in a closed carriage, perhaps, but three days' hard march for an army in haste."

"Even so, it would take the full strength of our forces to keep them pinned down," Eamon argued. "We cannot commit everything we have to one vain attempt to stop them cold in a single blow."

"If not at Sulcher's Pass, then where, Eamon?" Loghain asked. "At Redcliffe, with the screams of innocent women and children ringing in our ears? At the gates of the capital? On the streets outside the royal palace? Are you so eager to sentence our children to the same fate _we _suffered at the hands of our Orlesian masters? They think we are weak, easy prey, and we must show them that we are _not_ to be trifled with before it costs us more than we can afford to pay."

"You can't be thinking of a direct head-on assault, father," Anora said. "Show us what you truly intend."

He grinned at his daughter, looking more than slightly wolfish with his teeth bared so, and he reached out and placed a single figure of a knight with sword and shield directly in front of the flags and figures representing the Orlesians. "This is what _they'll _see," he said. "A small contingent of rather weary-looking infantry, not more than a thousand strong."

Anora's gaze sharpened and she nodded as she caught his intent. "They're expecting weakness…and you intend to give them what they expect."

"And then when they've committed themselves to charge against these men, you'll send in the rest of our forces to flank them," Alistair added thoughtfully.

"On both sides," Loghain said, and placed two horsed figures one on either side the horde of attackers. "As much cavalry as we can muster to take lead in the assault, and the rest as infantry to mop up what the horsemen can't finish off. If we manage to take them off guard we can tear their defenses open in a matter of moments. Then it's just a matter of routing them. Easier said than done, I know, but _it can be done_, which I believe is the point. This is not so different to what we did at River Dane, though we're in a far more defensible position than we were there."

"King Alistair, you would not allow this man to lead another such assault after what he did at Ostagar, would you?" Eamon demanded. "You could never trust him not to quit the field and leave you in the lurch, as he did to poor Cailan."

"My plan does not call for me to stand with either flanking army," Loghain said, loudly enough to shout Eamon down. "Indeed, there is only one place I need be, and that is at the head of the small contingent of infantry that draws the Orlesians into position."

"Why is that?" Alistair said. "It seems to me that you'd be more effective at the head of a cavalry division."

Loghain chuckled. "Not in the least. As Anora said, the Orlesians need to see _weakness. _I intend to show them that. When they see that Ferelden has only managed to field a small army led by a decrepit old man, they'll be practically falling over themselves to have at us."

Alistair's eyes, and Anora's, were not the only pairs of eyes to turn incredulously upon the immense and stalwart figure of the champion. He drew himself up to his full height, taller than anyone else in the room, and inquired irritably as to exactly _what _everyone was looking at.

"_Decrepit old man?" _Alistair said. "Perhaps you haven't taken a good long look in the mirror lately, Loghain, but except for a bit of snow on the mountaintop, you don't look particularly feeble. You look, in fact, very much as though you could fold me five ways and toss me across the Waking Sea to Kirkwall."

"Ah, but after half a week of hard trudging and short commons, I shall not be looking especially intimidating. I will go out of my way to _ensure_ it, in fact. While I was in Orlais I learned something rather interesting - the Chevaliers are still very much _afraid _of me, more so than I had ever believed they were. I'm practically an Archdemon myself, to hear the ridiculous tales they tell, and I often amused myself when my duties for the Wardens were done by feinting at Chevaliers I met at training grounds - they practically wet themselves to avoid me. I believe that if we show them evidence that the once-mighty Loghain has grown old and tired they will lose all sense and caution and fling themselves pell-mell into melee against me, all so very eager to be the one to strike me down. They'll be ripe for a good old-fashioned lesson in why it is never wise to incite the ire of a true King of Ferelden."

"One good thing, at least," a young nobleman Loghain didn't recognize said. "Most likely the Chevaliers won't have any mages with them."

"We won't either, however, and we'll sorely miss their aid," Eamon said soberly.

"I think I can help you there," a new voice said from the doorway of the war room. They turned to look and many jaws dropped at sight of a tall woman in heavy armor emblazoned with the griffon of the Grey Wardens. She removed her helmet and shook down her long tail of blonde hair. She was not pretty but she was certainly striking, with fierce blue eyes peering out from heavy makeup like warpaint, and a dark black tattoo boldly across one cheek. "Ferelden's magical community owes me something of a debt of gratitude, and I believe I can persuade some of them at least to leave off fighting the templars long enough to come to the aid of their country."

"The Warden Commander!" someone exclaimed, and the cry was taken up by other voices. "The Warden! The Warden! The Hero of Ferelden!"

The woman strode forward, moving easily despite the weight of her encumbrances, and held out a hand to Loghain. He took it and shook it firmly. "I'd heard you were back in the country. Nice to see you in your proper element, Ser," she said. Then without relinquishing his hand she cocked her head to one side and looked at him curiously. "You are untainted."

"A story perhaps for another time," he said. "If it so happens that another time comes to pass."

She laughed, a disarmingly merry sound considering her ferocious mein. "That's what I like about you, Loghain. Always so willing to spin a good yarn, but always 'at another time.'"

"Warden," Anora greeted politely, stepping forward with a slight curtsey. "Good to see you are well."

"And you, Anora. It's been awhile, hasn't it? You haven't aged a day."

"Elilia," Alistair said in cautious greeting. He nodded but the Warden stepped up and hugged him tight round the middle.

"Don't be that way, Al - I explained to you all the many good reasons I had for doing what I did, and I'm under the impression you've come to understand them better of late. In all these years you'd think you could have learned to be friendly with me again." She stepped back and took a good look at him. "You've put on weight. Being King agrees with you, it seems. Or perhaps it's being _Daddy."_

"Not to sound ungrateful for your presence, Warden," Eamon interjected cautiously, "but why are you here? I know you are not exactly afraid to put your oar into national affairs, but if you are here to assist us now won't the Wardens object?"

"Don't give a damn if they do," Elilia Cousland scoffed. "I was a daughter of Ferelden long before I was ever a Grey Warden, and while I cannot commit the rest of Ferelden's Wardens to the cause of retaining our sovereignty I most certainly can and I most assuredly _will_ throw my glove in the ring and fight. If Weisshaupt wants to censure me once all is said and done, let them."

"If you can truly sway a few mages to join us, Warden, we'd be in your debt," Loghain said seriously. "Again."

"I'll wager I can go one better," Elilia said. "Maybe two better. Give me a fast horse and I'll rally the werewolves of the Brecilian Forest and entreat Orzammar to send a contingent as well."

"Maker's breath, Eli, do you really think you could do all that? _In time?" _Alistair gasped.

"I can make one hell of an effort," Elilia said with a grin, "and I think you remember just how the world shakes when I put a bit of muscle into it."

Loghain snorted. "I know _I_ do. Give her her horse, Alistair."

"Straight away," Alistair said with alacrity. "Can you leave at once?"

"Don't need to," she said with a laugh. "I'm only teasing."

"_What?"_

"Afraid so. You see, I've had King Bhelen on standby for months, after wrangling a commitment from him of ten golems and a company of fifty berserkers. And I brought the dozen mages I was able to round up along with me, and they're ready to march with the battalion. I am on my way now to the Lady of the Forest where she hides with those werewolves that still possess their minds, and while I can't promise they'll join forces with us I _believe_ that they will. So you see the horse needn't be that fast, provided you can spare a messenger to send for Orzammar in my stead."

"Will you put the Warden in command of a cavalry division?" Eamon demanded of Loghain.

"It would be an admirable answer to the problem I have in coming up with a suitable candidate," Loghain said, with a note of inquiry in his tone and the elevation of his eyebrow as he looked at her.

"Not me, my friend, I'm sorry. I can ride but one thing I've never learnt to do is fight from the saddle. I would be far more effective unhorsed."

"Then perhaps you should head up an infantry division instead," he said heavily. "Damn it all, why are good horsemen so thin on the ground in this bloody country?"

"I can fight from horseback," Eamon said. "I will take a division, if no other is to hand."

Anora laughed, a brittle sound. "And what if you were to suffer an attack of gout at an inopportune moment, Eamon? Good Ser, you have grown very fat and old indeed in these last years."

"Then whom?" Eamon said, bridling.

"Me. _I_ shall lead a cavalry," the Queen said matter-of-factly.

There was a loud outburst from the floor, and when it at last settled they found Loghain silent and contemplative. He looked at his daughter with some pain in his expression.

"I strove always to keep you from war," he said at last. "I taught you to fight and to defend yourself and then spent the rest of your life ensuring that you should never put to use what I taught you. So much that went badly during the Blight was directly as a result of my putting myself between you and the commission of your duty as Queen because while I knew you had the _strength_ to face what was coming, I didn't want you to have to. I _still_ don't want you to fight. But I shan't stand in your way this time, if you truly think you must go to war."

"Wait, you can't just let her be a soldier," Alistair said. "What about the kingdom? What about our _children?"_

"Chances are that even if things go badly for us at Sulcher's Pass, _one _of the three of us will survive to care for Duncan and Anora, and the country - if any of it remains to us," Anora said calmly. "Even if all three of us were to fall in battle I should not regret it provided our deaths ensure that Ferelden - _and our children _- are safe, far from the fighting_. I will fight."_

The Warden stuck two fingers in her mouth and gave a loud wolf-whistle in approbation.

"Who will take the other cavalry?" Anora said, after a gracious nod at her ardent supporter.

"Alistair," Loghain said.

"Woah, wait - Loghain, I can't lead a horse charge. I don't know how to fight in saddle," Alistair said, telegraphing panic at his unofficially appointed general.

"My King, you have until we reach Sulcher's Pass to learn." He addressed the entire assemblage. "This is war, ladies and gentlemen, and while our enemy may not be the twisted hordes we faced during the Blight the danger to our homes and our way of life is just as real. The time for political debate has passed, and now we must all commit our full strength and will to the task of protecting our homeland from those who seek to wrest it away from us. It is time again for Ferelden to make a stand."


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Upon the Eve of Battle**

"Not a half-bad army, I'd say," Elilia Cousland commented as she walked up and dropped to the ground behind Loghain, sitting back-to-back with him with her long legs outstretched before her. "You may thank me for my part in that later with extravagant gifts; jewels and precious metals will be sufficient."

Loghain snorted. "What use has a reckless battle maiden like you for diamonds and gold?"

"Well, I can always trade them for nice equipment," she said. "Speaking of, that couldn't possibly be the armor you're intending to wear tomorrow, could it?"

Loghain looked down at the sturdy leather armor he wore, heavy but nearly ten stone lighter than the massive plate he traditionally utilized. "It will suffice."

"It will suffice to get you promptly and efficiently slaughtered," she argued. "I know the way you fight - dear Maker, I _counted_ on the way you fight. You take the hard hits so we poor lesser mortals needn't."

"That's the way I fight in plate, but it's not the only way I _know_ to fight," Loghain countered.

"Ha. I'd bet anything its exactly the way you intend to fight _tomorrow. _If not, then why not toss that blasted shield aside and swing something with a bit more force behind it than that longsword?" She hefted her own enormous greatsword in illustration. "You can't act as an efficient defender when you're undefended yourself, Loghain."

"For my part of tomorrow's battle, what I'm wearing will suffice," he insisted. Elilia sighed, recognizing the tone of irrefutable resolution in his voice, and dropped the subject.

"I feel pretty good about the battle, don't you?" she said. "Once Orlais realizes we've got strength of arms and of allies, they should all run back home to Val Royeaux and not trouble us no more, right?"

"That's the hope," Loghain said noncommittally.

"I'm counting on my werewolves and golems to cause them to shit themselves, and with your battle plan we'll tear them apart."

"Yes."

"Loghain Mac Tir: A damned good fighter, but he talks too much. Can't get a word in edgewise."

"I'm only waiting for you to draw breath so that I may slip in a word or two."

She chuckled. "You're worried, aren't you?"

"I'm always worried before a battle. Any number of things can go disastrously wrong, no matter how solid the plan."

"Do you think Good King Alistair will be able to stay on that horse long enough to lead a charge?"

"That's one of the things I'm worried about."

"Then why make him command of a unit? Why not take Anora and Eamon instead?"

"Anora was right: Eamon is too fat and old to fight. And Alistair is King: if he manages to charge successfully, it will mean a thousand times more to the morale of our fighting men than if the Arl of Redcliffe did it. And he's not so bad ahorse as he thinks. Maric didn't figure out the fine art of staying in the saddle so quickly by twice again as long."

Elilia elbowed him in the side. "I didn't want to say anything about it, but you're _how_ much older than Arl Eamon?"

"Probably not as much as you think," he said grimly. "Three or four years, if I remember what Rowan once told me arightly. But unlike Eamon I haven't spent my declining years with my ass planted firmly upon velvet cushions, eating candied grapes and Orlesian chocolates, wearing ridiculous velvet tunics and silk pantaloons."

"Personally I've always thought you'd look rather well in velvet tunics and silk pantaloons," Elilia said wickedly, "particularly if the silk pantaloons weren't cut _quite_ full enough."

"Curb your tongue, you wretched harpy," Loghain said without rancor. He checked the spit he was turning. "Have you eaten yet? I believe this rabbit is nearly ready."

She laughed. "Why do you think I came over here? Life at camp improved greatly once you took over for Alistair as cook."

"You're a worse cadger than that dog of yours was," Loghain growled. He cut off a generous portion of the sizzling meat and gave it to her. _"Bon appetit, _as our perfumed and painted foes say."

"Feels just like old times, doesn't it?" she commented before rendering herself speechless with a huge bite torn directly from the carcass with her teeth.

_Just like old times. _Yes, indeed, it did feel just like old times, although the old times he felt were older than the woman who accompanied him. He'd told the Warden once that the past was always with you, and attempting to ignore it was both impossible and potentially disastrous. But he'd never felt so locked within the past as he did now. Any moment Maric would come bounding up to him, eager and friendly as a particularly enthusiastic - not to say _stupid_ - dog, and perhaps Rowan would come along behind him, always more sober than her betrothed but laughing with her eyes and mouth, and they would sit by his fire and tease him unmercifully, each in their own way.

"_Loghain, has anybody ever told you that you have the prettiest eyes?" _Maric might say, for it was his favorite gibe to compliment too fulsomely and upon things Loghain considered inconsequential, and his eyes were a frequent target. _"Don't you agree, Rowan? Doesn't Loghain have the prettiest eyes?"_

Rowan would nod, straightfaced and dry as toast. _"They are rather pretty eyes, Maric, yes."_

"_They _are _pretty. They're like two portholes looking out upon the Waking Sea, don't you think?"_

"_Or drops of Lake Calenhad."_

"_Oh no, no no, Lake Calenhad is far too dark and murky," _Maric would object. _"No, they're definitely the color of the Waking Sea. And what I like best about them is, if you look very closely, you can see the _Kraken _swimming 'round in them."_

And finally Loghain, equal parts exasperated and amused, would snap,_ "How many times a day, Maric, must I threaten your life?"_

"What are you grinning about?" Maric asked. Loghain blinked three times rapidly and the face resolved into that of the current King and the phantoms of the past vanished.

"Just a ridiculous memory," Loghain said. "Is anything wrong?"

"No. Just been going around the camp with Anora, trying to boost morale. It's pretty high already, though, with the Warden's reinforcements and all. Everyone seems to feel we stand a damned good chance tomorrow. I still wish you'd try and talk the Queen out of leading a charge. She'd listen to _you."_

Loghain chuckled ruefully. "What gives you that idea?" he said. "Anora has been gleefully rejecting my suggestions and ignoring my commands since she was first born."

"Maybe so, but you could pick her up and lock her in a closet, or something."

"Didn't work out so well when Howe tried it, as I was told."

"Well, yes, but that's because _I _came along and killed Howe," Elilia pointed out, through a mouthful of rabbit.

"Which you wouldn't have done had I not sent Erlina to convince you to do so," Anora interjected, coming up out of the shadows. She was resplendent in mail of volcanic aurum, gleaming red-gold in the firelight. She looked every inch the warrior queen as she stood beside her warrior husband, and if anything more imposing despite her smaller size.

Loghain picked a shred of meat off the rabbit's flank, popped it in his mouth, and chewed reflectively. "Well," he said after he swallowed, "I suppose I could toss Erlina in the closet _with_ you. You'd want some company after all."

"Try it and see what it gets you."

He laughed. "Tough talk, small one. Consider yourself fortunate that I find myself disinclined to make the effort."

"That and a lack of ready wardrobes," Elilia said.

"Can't I convince you not to do this?" Alistair asked Anora seriously.

"No, husband, you cannot."

"Anora, I'm _afraid."_

She blinked at him in surprise. "Of course you are. It's a battle - _everyone_ is afraid. But we all have a duty to perform, and we will all do what we must. Ferelden depends upon it."

He made some effort to speak, but was unable to find words. So instead of speaking he stepped forward and wrapped his wife in a tight embrace. She returned his affections awkwardly, eyes wide at the shock of it. He kissed her on the cheek and said "I love you" in a voice hoarse with emotion.

"_Ooooooooo," _Elilia hooted. Loghain tossed a glare over his shoulder at her and she shrugged at him. "Well, Leliana wasn't here to do it, so I felt obliged."

"Sometimes I can't imagine how you possibly managed to defeat me."

"You wanted me to."

"I _beg _your pardon?"

"Don't try and bullshit me, milord. If you didn't want me to win that duel we had you'd never have taken a knee, out of breath or not - and don't think I didn't notice that you stopped panting in roughly two seconds. You _yielded, _Loghain, and you're not exactly one for surrender. The most immediate and inarguable reason I had for not executing you as Al wanted. There were other reasons, of course, but I don't care to divulge them as you'd only get a swelled head," she said in a hoity-toity manner.

"Give me _one other reason _you had," Loghain said suspiciously.

"Well, you blew me off my sodding feet with a war cry. I respect that."

He snorted and let the subject by. The King and Queen were walking back to their pavilion, arms linked, oblivious to the exchange. He watched them for a moment, feeling oddly satisfied. He never would have thought his undemonstrative, dry-witted girl would find love and happiness with such a man as Alistair, but she seemed to have done and he was glad of it.

"Hmm, wonder if _they'll_ manage to get any sleep tonight," Elilia said, peering over his shoulder at them.

"Arrest that lunatic mouth," Loghain warned. "I'll not hear crude speculations upon my daughter and her lawfully wedded husband."

She grinned, laughed, and kissed him on the cheek. "I seem to remember you telling me that _you _have trouble sleeping before a battle," she said while he sat stunned. "If you want to join me in my tent, there's an old remedy for insomnia we could try. I'd suggest it to the royal couple, but I think they're probably already putting it to use."

He turned his head and looked at her, agape. "Now I _know_ you're mad," he said. "Either that or I am. You are not suggesting what it seems you are, you _couldn't_ be."

"I believe I am suggesting what my friend and fellow Warden Oghren would call 'bucking the midnight horse.' Does that truly make me mad?"

"The last time you came to me at night before a battle you persuaded me into sleeping with that blasted witch. Now you want me to sleep with _you?"_

"I know I'm not as beautiful as Morrigan, but I didn't think you'd mind that."

"Beauty's not the question here, 'tis _sanity."_

"Well, that time I was concerned with survival - yours _and_ mine. This time…let's just say I've missed you."

"Like an impacted tooth. Why in the Maker's holy name would you want to sleep with me?"

"Because you're a nasty, rotten, grey-haired old man with a dreadful disposition, virtually no personality and a face like a collapsed lung. I find that incredibly attractive."

He pushed her away, half-laughing. "You hussy. Quit teasing me, it's beneath you."

"You ought to have learned, Loghain - _nothing_ is beneath me. But I'd genuinely like _you _to be. You can be _over_ me, too, if you've the stamina. Somehow I suspect you do."

He stared at her and his grin slowly faded. She knew as much about the womanly arts of seduction as a maul, but despite the mockery in her words she was _serious, _Maker save him. It was shocking, but more surprising still was that he found himself wanting to take her up on the offer.

_No matter how tomorrow goes for the nation at large, you know full well this is like to be Loghain's Last Charge. Might as well go out in a blaze of glory._

"'Face like a collapsed lung?'" he parroted. "What exactly does a collapsed lung look like, pray tell, and how did you come to be aware of it?"

"Come to my tent, and I'll tell you all about a little Qunari tradition I've learned of called the 'Blood Eagle.'"

He stood up and pulled her to her feet along with him. "If I come to your tent, Warden, there'll be no further _talking."_

Her lips, as always painted slaughterous red, curved in a salacious smile. "Works out perfectly for me."


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T, but this particular chapter contains a few references that push a passage or two into M territory, for sexual situations and violence (Not _sexual_ violence).

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **My first play through of Origins, Redcliffe was the last main-plot quest I completed and so when I recruited Loghain (at that point just for purposes of achieving the "Recruiter" trophy for my profile, and quite begrudging having to sacrifice Alistair for it, too) he was the first fully-developed Champion I'd fielded. While I was somewhat aware of it from encountering Champions as foes, never more effectively than dueling Loghain himself at the Landsmeet (he actually slaughtered my poor rogue out of hand my first attempt, and nearly so on reload as well until I thought to use concentrated deathroot extract), I was still rather surprised and delighted to discover his ability to send foes flying with the War Cry talent. It tickled me to think of Loghain as a kind of Ferelden Shaka Zulu, and so that is why I have granted him the admittedly superhuman ability to do so within the confines of my fic.

* * *

**Chapter Eight: A Line, Clearly Drawn, I can Defend**

Loghain awoke before the morning horns well-chilled by the damp Ferelden night despite the armful of warm woman he held. The Warden had one leg thrown over both of his, one arm around his neck, and one battle-roughened hand resting upon his stomach very near that patch of now almost completely gray hair that was usually hidden under his smallclothes. He allowed himself a moment to simply watch her sleep, wondering at the faint marks he'd left upon her body that proved he'd had her. Elilia Cousland might have been too mannish and fierce to be _pretty, _but by the Maker she was a beautiful woman. And Maker knows he didn't deserve to lay with her.

Cautiously he extricated himself from her embrace, trying not to wake her, but as he moved her hand slid on his body, she grumbled something inaudible, and her fingers closed upon his half-erect phallus - pleasant, but unproductive in terms of preparing to greet a day of blood and death. Gently and with some reluctance he pried her hand from his sex, dressed hurriedly, and left her tent, feeling cowardly and blessing the lighter armor he'd chosen that required no assistance to don. The Warden hadn't offered herself to him with any expectations, he knew, but sneaking away in the pre-dawn dark made him feel low and mean.

There'd been a time when he'd been a _good _sneak, as adept at the fighting arts of cunning and dexterity as he was now with the unsubtle skills of raw power and rugged constitution, but that was in his teen years, before a final unexpected period of fast growth in his early twenties had made of him as much a giant as his father before him and decades encumbered by armor weighing nearly as much as he himself did robbed him of a portion of his former grace. He could still move with eerie speed and silence when he thought to do so, but even at his best he was not particularly inconspicuous - people _noticed _a man who was closer to a Qunari in size than to the typical human, who rarely reached and even more seldomly surpassed five feet ten inches. Long before mid-morning, when the scouts reported the enemy was at last in sight, the entire army was aware of the fact that Teyrn Loghain, as he was still thought by most, had spent the night with the Hero of Ferelden. In general, among the rank-and-file at least, this news was met with approval.

By the time the armies were in place the tickle he'd felt in his lungs when he awoke had deepened into a wracking cough, causing concern among the men and for Anora in particular, who demanded he see a healer before he came down with something serious. But of _course _he was coming down with something serious, exactly as he'd intended, and a healer's ministrations were both unnecessary and unhelpful, and he told her so firmly without explaining further. She bit down on her lips and the torrent of invective she desired to fling at her stubborn sire and turned her horse to rejoin her division. Loghain turned to the scout who came to report to him and demanded his information, ignoring the way the lad's eyes widened in alarm when he caught the sound of a raspy wheeze in his bark of command.

"The Chevaliers are within two miles of us, Ser," the soldier said, with a smart salute. "No sign of scouting parties."

That was welcome news. The Orlesians loved playing their games of intrigue and espionage, but when it came to moving troops they could usually be counted on to simply clump together and march hell bent for leather, heedless of the possibility of ambush. He'd depended upon that hubris during the Rebellion and it had served him well. He was heartened to see they'd failed to learn the lessons he'd so ably taught them. He turned to the small division of infantrymen and wardogs he commanded.

"All right, boys, this is it - try and make yourselves look _tired," _he bellowed, grinning, and the soldiers snickered and echoed his grin. He barked to the dwarven berserkers the Warden had insisted he place with his own men in exchange for keeping werewolves, golems, and mages under cover with the flanking attackers to stay well hidden behind the taller humans until the command was given for them to surge ahead. "They're coming, men, but fear not - we _will _take the day, for our homes, for our families, for Ferelden. They've been hard on the march all the way from Val Royeaux and doubtless they are hungry and parched. Let's show them our brand of hospitality, shall we, and feed them a good meal of Ferelden steel and wash it down with Orlesian blood!"

Their roar of approval, mingled with the excited barking of the mabari hounds, was almost deafening, and probably could be heard by the Chevaliers as they approached, but Loghain didn't care. He brought out his great kite shield and rested its lower edge upon a stone and leaned upon it as though for support, and during the tense time of waiting he deliberately worked up his cough and the wheeze in his chest as much as he could. After a particularly violent coughing fit, when he could hear a certain ripple of unease in the men who stood with him, he turned and gave them a droll and exaggerated wink and grin. Laughter erased worry as the men were reassured all was well, and they snickered amongst themselves to think what fools the Orlesians would be to ever believe that _Loghain Mac Tir _was sickly and weak.

Finally the Chevaliers, depressingly strong in numbers though thankfully as slow as he remembered them in tactics, came through the pass and were called to a halt some fifty yards from the Ferelden line. The general of the Orlesian forces urged his mount ahead a few paces and called to them.

"Ferelden commander - by order of Empress Celene the First of the most holy empire of Orlais, with the backing of the Divine, stand down."

"The Divine can go and sod herself," Loghain called back, not repressing the few ragged coughs it caused to speak across that distance, "and the Empress is out of her bloody mind if she thinks Ferelden is just going to roll over and play dead on her command."

"_Blasphemous Dog Lord!" _the general spat back, incensed enough to make his horse prance nervously. "How dare you speak so of Her Most Holy Eminence the Divine? How dare you speak such words of the Empress? You will die for your foolish bravado, but first I will know your name so as to ensure that it is never uttered again by a living soul!"

"I am Loghain Mac Tir, and this won't be the first time someone has tried to wipe my name from history's page. Better men than you have tried, and you'll fare no better than they." He noted with satisfaction the way the Chevaliers began to shuffle and prance much the way the spirited horse did, and the air of uncertainty that washed off of them in palpable waves. He let it build for a moment, then doubled over his shield and hacked so terribly and for so long it seemed entirely possible that he would cough up one of his lungs. He finally straightened up and wiped bloody slaver off his chin with a hand he allowed to shake visibly.

The Orlesian general narrowed his eyes. "You have grown old, Loghain Mac Tir, and you are no longer the warrior who by dumb luck alone defeated our knights at the River Dane. How terrible for such as you to come to the end of your days a useless husk of the man you were. Fortunately the Empire is merciful. Let us end your suffering. _Attack!"_

Loghain hoisted his shield and drew his sword in the same motion. _"Forward!" _he bellowed. The two lines of soldiers, one so strong and the other, seemingly, so very weak, surged towards each other. When only ten yards separated them Loghain gave the order for the berserkers to move up. The sudden appearance of fifty heavily-armed and armored dwarven ragers swinging enormous mauls slowed the Orlesian onslaught only a fraction, but it was a welcome fraction. The soldiers came together with the ring of steel on steel and the screams of injury from both sides. Chevaliers went flying right and left as the dwarven hammers cut wide swathes through their line, dogs dragged others to the ground and savaged their throats, and Loghain himself shrugged off any sign of illness and proceeded to bash, slash, and otherwise terrorize any Orlesian unlucky enough to come near. If any of his men still harbored fears that their general might not be faking the weakness with which he'd lured in the Chevaliers they were put to rest when he managed to send three knights in heavy plate flying back with a single blow of his mighty shield.

At last it seemed the Chevaliers were fully committed to their assault, and as many of them were packed into the valley Loghain had chosen as was possible. He gave the signal, the mightiest battle cry he'd ever uttered, loud and terrible enough to knock back the knights and soldiers surrounding him in all directions. It echoed off the mountains and came back to their ears amplified a hundredfold, and so terrified the Orlesian forces that it seemed for a moment that they might break ranks and run for home right then and there despite their superior numbers. They weren't given the opportunity. Like ocean waves crashing across a narrow breakwater from not one but _both_ sides, the bulk of the Ferelden forces surged over the rim of the valley and were upon the unlucky Orlesians before they'd fully recovered from the terror that had seized them. Golems pelted them with boulders the size of ponies, mages cast down horrible spells of lightning and ice and fire, werewolves bounded into their midst and began laying waste to men and horses with shocking brutality, and knights on horseback preceded the remainder of Ferelden's baying hounds and screaming infantry and tore great gaping holes in the Orlesians' flagging defenses. It was not an easy rout by any means, the Orlesians numbered too greatly and were too highly trained for that, but the Fereldens and their allies exhibited the tenacity and pugnaciousness they were known and frequently reviled for, and after several bloody hours it was clear that the Chevaliers were finally outnumbered by their foes - and when they realized as much, with no commanders remaining to lead them, they at last broke ranks and ran. The army followed for a few miles, bringing down as many as they could, ensuring that they would not rally and make a second attempt. When they were certain their enemies were well and truly on the run and thoroughly humiliated, they returned to the valley and their encampment to begin the task of cleaning up after the slaughter, honoring the fallen, and healing the wounded. Alistair drew his horse up alongside Anora's and gave her a close inspection before he was satisfied she'd taken no serious injury. He himself had a deep gash on his leg, but it was not life-threatening. He smiled at her in wordless triumph and she found herself smiling back.

The Warden bounded up to greet them both, slathered from head to foot in blood and gore, sporting injuries that would surely add to her already impressive collection of scars, but grinning ferociously with bloodlust and battle rage still evident in her wolfish blue eyes. "That…was one _hellacious good fight," _she said adamantly. "No gooey disgusting Darkspawn with hardly any brains or equipment at all, a foe with skill and fine steel and the clash of metal on metal and glorious _battle! _Remind me to give my compliments to your father, my Queen - only _he_ could have orchestrated such a masterpiece of death and violence."

"I do wish you _would _speak to him, Warden," Anora said, allowing worry to crease her brow, "for that would mean you'd _found _him. I haven't seen him since we charged."

"With blood and meat and boulders flying every which way, and frequent eruptions of fire and ice, that's hardly surprising," the Warden said, turning about to scan the ranks of soldiers. "I don't think I saw one thing outside the foe directly in my path since joining the fray."

"You would think Loghain would be visible _now, _though," Alistair muttered low. He appeared to have his own fears for the general's safety. "I suppose he could be out of sight behind a golem or a horseman, but…"

"I'm sure he's fine," the Warden said, but she now sounded anxious, too. "There were far more Chevaliers than we expected, but we still crushed them into a fine powder, didn't we? I hoped we'd be able to embarrass them so badly today that Celene and her bloody nobles would think twice about the wisdom of sending any more forces against Ferelden, but now I think we may have gone a step further than that. We may have actually put enough of a dent in her precious legions to make her _unable_ to send them against us in the near future. That should be a splash of cold water on the fires of those who advocate invasion."

They reached the edge of the valley, their slow conversational pace - set for the convenience of the Warden who was afoot and limping but who cheerfully refused the offer of a mount - allowed a number of cavalry and foot soldiers to pass them. They heard a cry from the men in their advance, and someone shouted for a healer. _"The Teyrn! He's wounded!"_

The only proper Teyrn on the field of battle that day was Fergus Cousland, who was safely ahorse a few feet to the left of his sister the Warden. "Loghain," Alistair clarified, but Anora had already kicked her mount into a run. He and the Warden caught up as quickly as they could. They saw the queen slide from the saddle and drop to the ground beside the prone figure of a fallen colossus. She pulled his head into her lap and wiped the blood and sweat and hair from his eyes with the handkerchief she drew from the cuff of her armor. _"Healer!" _she bellowed with volume and command equal to anything her father was known for.

None of Loghain's many apparent wounds seemed especially serious, but the cumulative effect of them had to be draining. Still, it didn't seem quite to explain the ghastly pallor of his face, the way he seemed utterly drenched in sweat, or the clammy coolness of his skin.

"Blast you, Loghain," the Warden swore. She dropped to her knees and began pawing at his armor, searching pockets and pouches for something. "I tried to keep you from it, all last night. What did you take, you…you…you _man?" _She spat the word at him as though his gender were the worst epithet in her lexicon.

"Eli, what are you talking about?" Alistair asked in bewilderment.

"The damned fool took something, I know he did, to make himself weak and sickly. What was it, Loghain? Deathroot? Belladonna? Some sort of animal venom? I know you've got some on you somewhere, just in case your illness needed a _boost_ before the Orlesians swallowed the bait. Ah ha!" She pulled out a packet which she opened, revealing a fine off-pink powder speckled with glittering blue like bone ash and ground sapphires mixed with a few drops of blood. She looked at it quizzically for a moment, then before anyone could stop her she took a deep sniff of it.

"_Be careful!" _Alistair warned, horrified.

"Spindleweed and elfroot with an infusion of highly-processed lyrium dust," the Warden said, with her eyes gone wide.

"Spindleweed and elfroot? Is that the antidote to whatever it is he took?" Anora asked.

The Warden shook her head. "This is no antidote, Your Majesty. Maker's breath, it's not what he took that made him sick, it's what he _didn't _take!" She could see they didn't understand, so she explained. "It's _medicine, _don't you see? This is the treatment for Bloody Lung!"

"Bloody Lung? I thought that was an Elven disease," Alistair said.

"Might as well be, since the lyrium in the treatment means only the Chantry can dispense it, and they do so at prices the usual victim can't afford. Bloody Lung breeds in foulness, and it's highly contagious when untreated, so it runs rampant in the worst alienages. We haven't had an outbreak here in Ferelden, thank the Maker, but it's known in the Free Marches, common in Antiva, probably rampant in Tevinter, and has lately reached epidemic proportions in Orlais. I assume that's where he contracted it, though I can't imagine what Warden business would find him among the quarantined. Open his mouth."

Alistair held Loghain's mouth open and the Warden poured half the contents of the package down his throat, with brandy from the flask she carried to wash it down. He swallowed reflexively and began to show signs of returning consciousness almost immediately. She gave him the other half of the dose and his eyes fluttered open weakly.

"He'll be all right now, won't he? This is the cure?" Anora asked anxiously. The Warden regarded her solemnly.

"He'll be _better, _my Queen, but there is no cure. The medicine stops the disease from spreading further, and slows its progression, but at best it only prolongs the victim's life. Missing a dose is _strongly cautioned against _by Chantry dispensaries, and I wouldn't put it past him to have skipped more than one. I doubt very much that he hasn't ruined what health he still enjoyed by this ploy."

"_Damn you, father!" _the Queen burst out angrily. "There had to be another way!"

Loghain looked up at her with no sign of recognition in his eyes until his mouth moved and he spoke in a hoarse voice they had to lean forward to hear. "What makes the sky blue?" he asked.

Bewildered, frightened by what seemed like delirium, Anora blinked a few times and stammered out, "It is said that it is caused by the refraction of sunlight through water vapor that hangs unseen in the air."

Loghain smiled. "If I live long enough for Duncan or Anora to ask me, it's good to know I'll have a proper answer for them, even if I'm forced to confess I don't understand a word of it myself."

"You great ass," the Warden said. "Don't scare us like that. _Andraste's tits, _man, I didn't save you from the Archdemon just to have you die fighting some bloody _Orlesians."_

He coughed, and a fresh spot of blood appeared on his chin. "And here I thought it was I saved _you_ from the Archdemon."

"Can you stand, father?" Anora asked. He nodded and they helped him to his feet. He looked embarrassed by their concern. "There has to be something we can do. We have magic - surely our healers can cure him."

The mousy little mage that had answered the queen's summons shook her head sadly. "If it is indeed the Bloody Lung, Your Majesty, magic presents no cure. I can restore a portion of his strength, however, and am honored to do so." She cast a whirl of light and magic that caused his wounds to knit and some color to return to his face. The mage curtseyed deeply and hung her head. "I regret I can do no more than this."

"Not your fault, girl," Loghain said curtly. "Give your talents to the wounded and worry not about me. In the old days King Maric told me once he thought I was simply too ornery ever to die, and perhaps he was more right about that than he knew. After all, by magic or coincidence I somehow beat the Darkspawn taint. Seems to me I stand a better than average chance of beating this blasted disease as well."

"I know of a way to _ensure_ it," the Warden said darkly. Alistair shot a sharp look at her. "We're not far. I suppose I've no right to ask it of you, but would you please help me to do it, Al? There must be a party to manage it, as you know, and if Loghain's strength should fail I'll need yours added to mine to bring him through the Gauntlet."

"I'll do it," Alistair said firmly, without a shred of hesitation. "Who will be our Fourth?"

"Fergus would come if I ask," the Warden said.

Anora broke in to this private exchange. "I don't know what the two of you are speaking of, but if a fourth sword arm will in some way save my father's life, then look no further than _me."_

"Do you remember, Loghain, when I took you through the ruined temple to the peak of Mount Daverus to face the High Dragon?" the Warden asked. "You asked me then what lay within the building we did not enter, and I wouldn't tell you. How would you like to see for yourself?"

"Does this have something to do with the publications of that Brother Genitivi fellow?" Loghain asked suspiciously.

The Warden nodded. "Indeed. The temple is truly the final resting place of the Prophetess. There is a Gauntlet that must be passed in order to reach Her, but the merest pinch of Her ashes will cure your sickness forever."

"What of this Gauntlet?"

"The Trials you must pass to prove your worthiness are not insurmountable. In truth they're rather easy, though I suspect the truly _un_worthy would find harder obstacles barring his path than we did. Just a few puzzles to test the mind, the will, and the cooperation of your party. Alistair and I have been through it so we should be able to guide you even if the specific Trials have changed."

"Seems an unconscionable waste of the King's time," Loghain said airily.

"That is for _me_ to decide, I believe," Alistair said with a severity and command he could not have achieved ten years ago. "I shall put Teyrn Fergus in charge of things here and the victory march back to Denerim. You, I, the Queen, and the Warden are going to pay a visit to Holy Andraste. _End of discussion."_

He broke away to his task then, leaving Loghain standing slightly shocked, and Anora took the opportunity to draw the Warden aside for a private talk. She poked a finger in the warrior's chest and stuck her face up close to hers.

"Did you sleep with my father just to keep him from sneaking some sort of poison?" she asked.

The Warden was taken aback, but rallied. She looked the Queen squarely in the eye. "No, Your Majesty."

Anora studied her eyes for a moment before drawing back, satisfied. "Good."


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Rough Travels, Rough Travails**

Even though it was her idea from the get-go, the Warden seemed unaccountably grumpy as they trudged cross-country to the hidden temple. Loghain thought he might know why - during the time pre-Denerim he'd spent traveling with her throughout Ferelden and even the Deep Roads, "wrapping up unfinished business," as she put it, he'd noticed she had a penchant for looting - anything and _everything _they found, in fact, which accounted for why she kept that Orlesian girl close at hand at all times. Leliana had an annoying voice, prattled endlessly, and required constant attention in battle or she'd be knocked out cold despite the fine armor the Warden had no doubt made a gift to her of, but she could pick a lock with ten times the dexterity of the assassin Zevran. All those dead Chevaliers back at the battlefield represented untold fortunes in shiny objects and equipment, and someone else was going to benefit from it all. He did see her stoop quickly and scoop up a cameo brooch from the breast of one foe as they were leaving, however.

He had a hard time believing that the ashes of Andraste were really at the far end of this little side-trip they were making, or that they would truly have the power to heal him if they were. He had an illness, yes, but in his considered opinion what he was dying of was nothing more nor less than a bad case of _old, _and there could be no cure for that. This was a waste of time. It was _right _that he die, he'd been prepared for it a long time now. He'd come back to Ferelden, despite thinking Alistair would call for his execution, because damn it all to the Void and back if he couldn't die _useful_ then at least let him die at _home_. Stopping the Orlesians' plans to invade would make him feel that he was dying both useful _and _at home, which was the best hand fate could deal him.

There was another, under-the-surface reason why he didn't want to go along with this grand scheme of the Warden's, one that he did not like to have to speak of aloud. But the map he carried about with him in his head showed the village of Haven and the temple where he'd helped the Warden slay their holy High Dragon was quite a goodly walk from Sulcher's Pass, and he was bloody tired, and it wouldn't do to let them get _too_ far out of their way before he managed to talk them out of it.

"You said this Gauntlet of Trials can only be passed by the worthy," he said to the Warden. "While I believe in the Maker and all that, I can't say I've been a good little Andrastian since…ever, really. What makes you think I can make it through?"

"You will," the Warden said simply. "It's not difficult. I don't even know if it's really _real."_

"How can you say that?" Alistair said reproachfully. "You passed through the Gauntlet, you saw the Urn, you touched the ashes…you _certainly_ saw that they saved Arl Eamon's life. You _know_ it's real."

"I know it _works, _Al, that's a very different thing. Oghren said there was lyrium in the mountain, even in the construction of the resting place, powerful lyrium of a type he'd never felt before. Maybe _that _was what made the ashes a curative - I don't suppose we'll ever know for sure. Seems a little more likely to me than the idea that the charred remains of a dead woman have retained some blessing of a Maker that doesn't seem to give a good flogging damn about His favored creation _or _the Bride he supposedly chose from amongst us. He let her bloody well burn, after all."

"_You _were deemed worthy and yet you'll stride along calmly blaspheming the Maker and His Bride," Loghain said wryly. "I suppose I don't have so much to worry about, then."

"Hey, I'm not the one who told the Divine, in absentia, to go roll in the mud and finger herself."

"The Divine is a mortal woman in the back pocket of the blasted Orlesians, and she's welcome to do that any time as far as I'm concerned," Loghain retorted glibly. "And more, for I would be made quite a happy man were I to hear she had suddenly and with no prior warning taken a very long walk off a very short dock."

Alistair, good Chantry-going lad that he was, stuck his fingers in his ears. "I'm not hearing this. La-la-la-la-la."

"Let us leave aside the subject of the provenance of this curative for the time being, shall we?" Anora said. "You are at least quite certain that it will _work?"_

"Pretty damned," the Warden said. "Brought Eamon back in a heartbeat from poisoning and the after-effects of being held captive by a demon, not that I haven't had some doubts in the years since that he actually _deserved_ to live. Bloody Lung shouldn't be much of a problem compared to that, I would think."

Alistair glowered, but held his silence. The Warden saw it and clapped him on the back hard enough to make him stagger a few paces. "Come on, Al - you claim the man 'did his best' for you, but it always sounded to me as if you were barely tolerated and shuffled off to Chantry School as fast as humanly possible."

"He repaired my mother's amulet," Alistair began, but then he remembered Loghain saying that the Redcliffe serving girl might not have been his actual mother, which made him think that perhaps the bastard son she'd died giving birth to most likely _also_ died just as the woman's daughter had been told, and that since the boy was evidently not _Maric's_ child, he might well have been _Eamon's. _Further meaning that the amulet might never have been repaired with the intention of returning it to _him._

The Warden was unapprised of Loghain's conjectures, but she sighed and clapped Alistair on the back again. "You are a sentimental fool, Al." Blushing and half-crushed beneath the weight of dawning reality, Alistair could not deny it.

Despite the mage's healing and the dose of treatment the Warden had forced down his throat, Loghain was experiencing certain difficulties keeping up with the younger folk over the rough terrain, alarming as even a day before he could have run all three of them into the ground in terms of endurance if not speed. Before they'd covered half the distance the ragged wheeze was once again evident in his breathing, and the occasional cough wracked up aspirated blood that stained Anora's white handkerchief with tiny pink spots. _I'll have to buy her another one, _he thought dimly, for even thought was difficult when so much of his energies were necessary just to keep one foot plodding in front of the other step after step.

The Warden saw he was flagging and shored him up on one side. "Not much further. Just hold it together another couple of miles. Easy for an old warhorse like you, right?"

"Right. Easy," he said raggedly, but pressed on, without the energy to spare to feel embarrassed by needing to lean on the woman's shoulder so. It was more than a _couple _of miles to the foot of the mountain temple, but Loghain was nothing if not relentless and made it, tired and out of breath but still with strength to spare. The Warden was anxious to press on but allowed them a moment to sit and rest upon the steps of the antechamber.

"By the Maker," Anora said reverently, "this place is magnificent."

Loghain grimaced. "By my memory, even though the Warden had already cleared the main rooms pretty well, it is less magnificent than it is run-down and sadly defiled by generations of dragon-worshipping fools. And there's dragon shit everywhere, as I recall."

"Not in the Gauntlet, though," the Warden was quick to assure the Queen. "The Guardian wouldn't let the cultists near - they were unworthy, of course - and it's clean in there, if not _entirely_ untouched by the decay of time."

"The…Guardian?" Anora said doubtfully.

"The spirit that guards the ashes," Alistair explained. "He looks a formidable warrior for all he's not entirely solid and all, and I for one was glad that fighting him wasn't part of the Gauntlet. He just asks you a very personal question for which you already know the answer, and he doesn't even seem to care whether or not you answer him. I suppose he can see the answer in your eyes, or something."

"We're here for Loghain, and he'll be the one who must take the lead in the Gauntlet itself," the Warden said, "but when we came before he asked _all _of us questions. Prepare yourself, Your Majesty, because the questions he asks are the type that open some emotional wounds. Like Al said, though, you really don't have to answer."

The Queen looked momentarily pensive as she considered what emotional wounds this spirit would choose to rankle, but her expression settled back into its usual polite neutrality and she tossed her head. "Let him ask. I daresay I won't be taken unawares by anything he might say."

"Are you rested enough, Loghain?" the Warden asked. "Without another dose of medicine to hand I don't want to dally. With the High Dragon dead I think it likely we'll meet no resistance in the form of cultists, and hopefully no more dragons showed up to hatch out what eggs we left to spoil on their own."

"There _will_ be a fight, though," Alistair said. "Shadows of ourselves, if the Gauntlet does not vary. You can expect it to be…grueling."

The Warden shuddered, and it did not look theatrical. "Shadow Loghain. A sobering thought. I would suggest we target that particular shade _first _and deal with the rest after it falls."

"The Shadow Loghain might be as ill as the real one," Alistair pointed out. "It might not be as formidable as we expect."

"Let's hope. Being knocked off my feet by a roar from the real thing is humiliating enough - to be bowled over by something I can't even properly see would be far worse."

"There's a ponderation for the ages for you - could Loghain repel _himself_ with a war cry?" Alistair said, smiling.

"The Sten might have been able to give us an answer to that," the Warden said, shaking her head. "I remember he spent _hours_ one day while we were walking the Imperial Highway trying to explain to me the sound of one hand clapping."

"I thought you said you did not wish to _dally," _Loghain pointed out irritably.

"So I did, and so I don't. Let's press on."

They climbed up through the temple's many levels, into and through the Wyrmling's Lair, and they encountered no resistance and indeed few if any signs that _anything _had entered the temple in the years since they'd killed the dragon, though the Warden said the Chantry had sent an expedition to verify the discovery. She didn't sound too pleased about it, either. Loghain wondered how she knew the Divine hadn't had them simply take the urn and its holy contents back to Orlais to be fawned over and defiled by the thrice-damned clergy and he realized that much of her displeasure surely stemmed from the fact that she _didn't_ know, not for sure. "The Guardian would _never _let that happen, _never," _he heard her mutter under her breath.

Eventually they came once more to the bright sunshine on top of the mountain peak. They paused briefly at the bleached remains of the High Dragon as they passed.

"Maker's breath," Anora breathed. "I realize that the Archdemon was the greater foe, but this…this is impressive. Who was with you when you killed it?"

"Me, Oghren, Wynne, and your father," the Warden answered. "Loghain actually killed it - he seems to have a knack for dragonslaying. Perhaps because by the time the bleeding things were ready to fall he was the only one of us that still had enough stamina to strike the damned thing down. I actually thought he killed the Archdemon but evidently it was only knocked out for a moment - and then I felt a little bit like a pretender, making that final blow after he'd crippled the beast for me."

"We all worked together to cripple the beast," Loghain said. "With the Archdemon as with the other dragons we faced. The kill falls to all who battled, not the one who happened to land the final blow."

"Even Wynne?" the Warden teased, knowing that there'd been no love lost between Loghain and the healer, although by the end of their association the mage had relented somewhat in her low opinion of the former Teyrn, which had from the start mostly been a reaction to how much she had adored Cailan, who probably could not have picked her out of a crowd, and Alistair, in whose company she spent the remainder of her life. Her state funeral had been a scandal that reached Loghain's ears even in Orlais, where he kept himself busily occupied in _not_ hearing news from home for fear it should send him on a murderous rampage through the streets of Montsimmard.

"When she cast spells of ice and stone to slow the beast, and spells of healing to keep the rest of us alive? Yes, even Wynne."

"Her will always petered out before Loghain's," the Warden confided to Anora. "Morrigan's, too, for that matter. Remember when we were clearing out the Brecilian forest and we found that trap the ancient shade had set for travelers?" she asked Loghain.

"The fake campsite. Yes, I remember."

"_Two _mages in our party, and all of us were trapped in the thrall of the spirit's spell. All except Loghain, that is. Wynne managed to wake up before the rest of us did, thanks to her guardian spirit, but she was badly sapped and hardly any help to him in slaying the beast. I remember how upset she was that she'd succumbed when you didn't. Didn't she actually end up accusing you of being an apostate?"

"She did, yes."

The Warden laughed at the memory. "Well, enough reminiscence. The Gauntlet awaits."


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **Low comedy…what can I say? I'm a lifelong fan. I have been a devoted Stoogemaniac virtually from birth, and while part of me does want to see the new movie the purist in me won't allow it. Good bad or indifferent it could not be but a pale shadow of the original, and another pale shadow seemed appropriate for the Gauntlet of Trials, which is seemingly all about wispy reflections. No prizes for guessing which of the three is Moe, Larry, and Curly, and Anora works out well as the horrified onlooker helpless to stop the depredations of these idiots as they do their damnedest to destroy something beautiful and sacred. It's a little more serious than _outright_ slapstick, I think, but the homage is there.

* * *

**Chapter Ten: The Three Stooges Meet Our Lady Andraste**

"Welcome, pilgrims, to the shrine of the Most Holy Andraste."

Loghain sized up the creature - he could not think of it as a _man_ - that stood before them. It _looked_ like a man, except for being somewhere in the neighborhood of eight feet tall and, as Alistair had said, not entirely…_solid, _but despite the vague sense of translucence of the image the overall impression he received was of immense formidability. That warhammer on its back looked like it could do real damage. The other impression he got from the creature, an equally immense _calm_ spanning a thousand patient years, suggested he didn't have to worry about it unless he did something sacrilegious. He prepared himself for a fight regardless - impressions were, after all, only impressions.

The Warden bowed her head to the spirit. "Guardian. We have come to honor Andraste, and seek her aid to heal our comrade Loghain, who suffers a terrible illness for which there is no cure."

The spirit nodded back. "I remember you, and your companion as well. Two unrecognized pilgrims do I see, and all of you have traveled a long and arduous road. You have faced many trials to get here, and more await before you may come to the resting place of the Revered. Before you enter the Gauntlet, allow me a moment to ask of you each a question."

The Warden was now looking to him to take the lead, as were the others, and the Guardian clearly expected answer of some kind, so Loghain stepped forward and gave his own nod. "Ask."

"Loghain, son of Gareth, father of Anora, protector of one King and betrayer of another. You despise the Chantry, revile the Divine, submit yourself to the will of few and are apologetic to none, and resign yourself to suffer the fate of the unworthy, doomed to wander the depthless dark of the Void denied the Maker's favor and the love and forgiveness of those gone before you. For which of your crimes do you believe yourself damned?"

Loghain drew himself up tall and squared his shoulders. "For _all_ of them, Spirit."

The Guardian shook his head sadly. "That is not the answer in your heart."

"I thought you said he didn't _require _an answer," Loghain muttered to Elilia.

"Evidently he wants you to come to some realization that you haven't had yet."

He looked back at the spirit, defiant for a moment, and then sighed. "You want to know for which, Spirit? The truth is that I don't know which sin tolled the death knell for my soul. Was it for failing to protect my mother as the Chevaliers held her down and raped her before my very eyes and then slit her throat? Was it for running away and leaving my father to die without even a fare-thee-well to let him know that I loved him and would spend the rest of my days begrudging his willing sacrifice? For loving the woman to whom my best friend was betrothed, whether or not she was the woman he wanted? For leaving Cailan, a son to me, to die for a promise I made long ago to a King who was already dead and a conspiracy that may well have existed only in my own mind, even if I am still not assured of it? Or perhaps for selling innocent Ferelden citizens into slavery - some of the elder of which were good men I once served with, men who helped me free our country from its own slavery? I don't know which of my crimes is more heinous than the others, Spirit, but I know that I am damned, and so I say again: for _all_ of them. I carry my mistakes with me."

The spirit nodded. _"That _is the answer in your heart."

Alistair put a tentative hand on Loghain's shoulder. "You can't hold the blame for everything - " he began, but Loghain brushed him aside impatiently.

"Don't spout worthless platitudes at me, pup. Whether I can or I can't makes no nevermind, as the fact of the matter is I _do."_

The Spirit turned its attention to Anora. "Anora, daughter of Loghain, wife of Alistair, Queen of Ferelden."

"Ask your question, Spirit. I am not afraid to face my own demons."

"You failed to produce an heir for your husband Cailan, and many in the Kingdom claimed that you must be barren, even attributing this infertility to a curse of the Maker because of your parents' common origins. Cailan was unfaithful to you, having dalliances with many other women, and you were fully aware of the machinations of certain nobles to have you replaced as Queen. You even feared that this infidelity and conspiracy may have been what caused your father to leave Cailan to die at the hands of the Darkspawn, though the truth is that he did not know of it."

"He bloody well does _now," _Loghain growled. The spirit ignored him.

"Do you fear that you drove Cailan to move against you?"

Anora hung her head for a moment, then raised her face to meet the Guardian's gaze and laughed bitterly. "Of course I do. I am what I am, by nature or by training, and I am not…_warm, _by any means. I have often wondered if I had been more patient, more…_loving_…perhaps Cailan would not have sought his pleasures elsewhere, and perhaps he would not have striven in so foolhardy a manner to assert his own unique space in the history books if I had been able to set my own pride and ambition aside a bit in order to make him feel his were of value to me. If I am expected to feel bad about not giving him an _heir, _however, I can only point out that I have given Alistair _two_ and none of Cailan's _other_ women begot him any bastards, so I have set my guilt about that aside."

Alistair did not attempt to placate his wife as he had her father - her response would have been identical - but he did put an arm around her shoulders. "Cailan wanted out from under his _father's _shadow, and mine as the extension of it, not yours," Loghain said.

"Elilia, daughter of Eleanor - once before you passed through the cleansing flame, but the path you have trod since then has been no easier than the path that led you here before. For the whole of a decade you have faithfully executed your duty as a Grey Warden, yet lately there grows in you a sense of dissatisfaction. The First Warden is a posturing, hypocritical _fool, _you think, and you feel a certain disgust at the rules you chafe against and cannot fully understand. The demands for secrecy and isolation gnaw at you, you feel that much could have transpired differently for Ferelden had the Wardens only been straightforward about their purpose from the beginning, and questions about why some things were allowed to happen - and why no aid was ever sent aside from one elderly Orlesian Warden - have begun to eat away at your insides. You long to cast aside your calling and live the remainder of your days as your own master. Can you justify the abandonment of your duty, or is it true that your _primary_ reason for wanting to leave the Wardens is that you have grown bored of it?"

The Warden seemed momentarily shocked, then embarrassed. "I _am_ bored, _and _bothered, and frustrated and angry and dissatisfied, in equal measures. I would like nothing more than to cast aside the mantle of Warden-Commander and make a break for freedom, whatever that means. But I can't run from _myself, _can I? And I cannot abandon my honor." She looked deeply depressed at the thought.

"Alistair, son of Maric, husband of Anora, King of Ferelden," the Guardian said, at last turning to the final member of their party. "You, too, have passed through Andraste's holy fire, but another fire has since scorched your soul. This man betrayed your comrades to their deaths. You called for his execution, but your desires were not fulfilled. Moreover, the man was made to stand among those very Wardens he betrayed, and _you_ abandoned them because of it. Now you stand at his side, and you have even entrusted much of the fate of your beloved Ferelden to his care. So tell me, who was the greater traitor? The man who quit the field to save a portion of the army he commanded rather than risk all to save a foolhardy King and Wardens who did not trust him with most vital information, or the man who abandoned his friends to face a dreaded foe without him because of a fit of childish and _murderous_ pique when his desire for vengeance upon a submissive foe was unfulfilled?"

Red to his ears, Alistair stammered over his answer for a moment before his head dropped and he said, _"My _betrayal was the greater, Spirit. It took me many years to realize it, but now I understand how wrong I was to call for base revenge, and I am grateful to Elilia for denying it to me."

"Ha! Not as grateful as I am," Loghain said. Then he put a hand on Alistair's shoulder and said, as kindly as he could manage, "Don't fret, lad - _I_ would have killed me, too."

"The way is open to you, pilgrims," the Guardian said, and vanished.

"I don't think _any_ of us is doomed to damnation," Elilia said when he was gone, with a severe glare for Loghain. "Nor do I think that Anora is in any way to blame for Cailan's stupidity - he struck me as pretty much born that way - and as for you, Alistair, you betrayed no one. You were to be King, and you could not be both King and Warden. That's for prickish hypocrites like the First Warden in the Anderfels."

"Nice try, Eli," Alistair said quietly, "but I know better than that."

"No one is going to talk _any _of us out of the way we feel about ourselves," Anora said. "It's just part of what makes us who we are."

"The riddling spirits are up ahead," Alistair said. "At least if the Gauntlet is the same."

"Answer their stupid questions correctly, Loghain, and their spirits will unlock the door to the next area. The riddles were of the self-evident sort last time," the Warden said, with a long-suffering sigh.

Indeed they were, and Loghain, who'd never had much patience for riddling, was hard-pressed to give a straight answer rather than deliberately replying with absurdities. If it could justly be said that he had an underdeveloped sense of humor, he was fairly certain these creatures had not even the concept of such. Finally he was through the double-line of shades and the door stood open. Elilia touched him gently on the shoulder. "Just be prepared: the next part is harder than anything else in the Gauntlet, even though it doesn't really test you on anything."

A figure stood in the open doorway, another shade of some sort, and he approached cautiously. It was a woman, small and slender, with fair hair gathered into a soft bun at the nape of her neck. He recognized the outline…

She turned to face him, and he looked down in shock and sadness into the face of his mother.

She smiled, though her eyes were sorrowful. "My son, for too long you have carried this grief and guilt my death has caused you. You were only a child, and there was no way for you to protect me from my fate. Indeed, it was _my_ duty to protect _you, _as your father and I tried so hard to do. Even as I lay dying my only fear was for _you, _my son, my only regret that you had to suffer the pain of witnessing my demise. Release these feelings you have harbored for too many years, and free yourself at last from the pain they have caused."

Though she herself was ethereal, she pressed something very solid and real into the palm of his hand - an amulet, shaped like a tiny mirror. "Take this, and let it be a reminder to you that you can no more be the _remedy _for all the world's ills than you can be the cause."

She vanished then, without another word. Loghain stood for a moment, turning the pendant over and over in his big hand, and then a strangled moan escaped his throat and he staggered and would perhaps have fallen had his companions not rushed to support him.

"I told you so," the Warden said, sadly.

"Let's move on," Loghain said hoarsely. The next area pitted them against their doubles, and while it was a hard-fought battle it was hardly impossible as the shades had skill but seemingly no tactics. They tore down the battlefield-controlling Shadow Loghain, then focused on the heavy-damaging Shadow Warden, and Shadow Anora with the bow she'd used in battle rather than the wicked blades she weilded now was easy pickings after knocking out the defenses of Shadow Alistair. Building the ghost bridge was a piece of cake since two of the party already knew the trick of it and the mechanism involved was self-evident to Loghain and Anora as well. He crossed over the solidified structure and the others followed after. They entered the chamber where Andraste awaited and approached the altar that stood before the line of protective flames.

Loghain read the inscription, did a double-take, and read again. He turned to glare accusingly at the Warden. "Am I interpreting this damned thing correctly?"

She snickered wickedly. "More than likely, given that thunderous disapproval I see in your eyes."

"I will _not _strip naked and walk through fire."

She shrugged. "Then you will not come to the ashes, and you will die with blood in your throat, a miserable, defiant old bugger to the last gasp, and I will take great delight in the fact that the last words you hear upon this earth will be mine as I tell you what a thrice-damned fool you are."

"Come on, Loghain - it's not that bad. _We_ had to do it before, and what's worse, we had _Oghren_ with us," Alistair said, pulling a face. "And _Wynne!"_

Loghain gestured wildly at Anora. "And I've got _my daughter."_

"Look, you just touch the altar and the clothes disappear. Walk through the flames, the Guardian says 'Congratulations, blah-de-blah,' and hey, presto! The clothes are back on. No muss, no bother, and no particular need to look at anyone else in their radiant glory," Elilia said. "It's probably just an illusion in the first place, nakedness _and_ fire, to see whether you really have enough blind, stupid faith to do it. Religions are _always _insistent upon utter stupidity in their followers."

"_Eli," _Alistair said despairingly.

Loghain regarded the altar for a moment in evident disgust, then shook his head, reached out, and touched it. The Warden might have been right in claiming the nakedness he experienced upon that simple action was merely illusion, but the cold draft in his nether regions felt real enough. Deliberately not looking anywhere but straight ahead, he forged through the flames.

The Guardian appeared. "You have passed through the Gauntlet. You have trod the footsteps of Our Lady Andraste and walked through the flames, and like her you have been cleansed."

When the spirit vanished their clothing reappeared. Glad to have it over and done with, Loghain stalked up the tall stairs to the small urn set before the grand statue of the lady Herself, his companions close behind. "All right, Warden, we're here. What happens now?"

She removed the lid of the urn. "Now I take a pinch of the ashes, and - " she flicked them directly into his face. He recoiled, almost losing his balance on the top step, and glowered at her fiercely.

"I don't think that was entirely necessary, do you?" he snarled.

"How do you feel?" she asked anxiously.

"Livid."

"That's not what I meant, bone-brain," she said. "Do you still feel sick?"

"Don't we have to pray over him, or something?" Alistair asked nervously. "The mage who used them on Arl Eamon did."

"Yes, but I never heard or read _once_ that it was necessary," Elilia said. "Cough, Loghain."

"What?"

"_Cough, _damn you - so we can see if you've still got the Bloody Lung."

He made the effort, but found he could not. He took a deep breath and discovered he could fill his mighty lungs clear to the top without pain or hindrance. He let it out gustily. "I think it's gone," he said, surprised.

Elilia's smile was enormous. "I knew it would work!" As if in celebration she plunged her gauntleted hand back into the urn and "accidentally" flicked another pinch of ashes in _Alistair's _face. Anora groaned to see the Prophetess flung about in so casual a fashion.

He sputtered indignantly. "What was _that _for?" he demanded. "I'm not sick!"

"Yes you are," Elilia said. "You have the Blight. And that is not a good thing for a King to have, is it? It occurred to me on the way here that if Andraste can cure _all _sickness, then she must be able to cure this as well."

"Eli, if Andraste's ashes could cure you of being a Warden you would not be one now," Alistair said. "You've had your hand in that urn three times now."

"I've never actually _touched_ the ashes, Alistair - I've always had friggin' armor-plated _gloves_ on when I handled them. Thought it might break the enchantment if I made direct contact."

She put her hands on his shoulders and held him at arm's length, studying him intently but actually _sensing_ him rather than seeing him. Finally she grinned and clapped him on the arm heartily. "Not a tickle! The old girl came through for me again!" Her prancing, in heavy armor, caused the pedestal to wobble alarmingly, and Anora shrieked slightly as the urn came close to toppling.

Loghain looked at the urn contemplatively. "So Andraste's ashes cure the Blight, eh?" he said thoughtfully. "That's something to ponder, isn't it?"

He turned back to the others. "Warden?" he inquired. She turned to him. "Yes, my friend?" He plunged his fist into the urn with nearly blinding speed and flicked a pinch that was more like a _scoop_ of ashes in the woman's face. She screamed bloody murder as the cremains of the Maker's Chosen stung her eyes.

"_Why did you bloody _do _that?" _she shouted, incensed.

"Oops," Loghain said calmly and unrepentantly.

She raved, she swiped at her face, she sputtered and blustered incoherently. "I'm not - I'm not - _I'm not a _Warden_ anymore!"_ she wailed.

Loghain shrugged. "That's what you wanted."

"It is - it is _not!"_

"It is according to what you said to the Guardian," he pointed out. "The only thing holding you, you said, was duty and honor and the bloody taint. Now you don't have to worry about it anymore, you can no longer perform your duty and your honor remains intact."

"_This isn't what I wanted!" _she repeated, shrieking.

"Too late now. And too late to worry about it, as well. If the First Warden complains, just tell him its all the fault of that _dreadful Loghain."_

She reared back, hands doubled into fists, and flew at him. She knocked him back into the pedestal which toppled, upsetting the sacred urn. With a strangled cry, Anora flew for the falling container and managed to catch it midair and right the topless vessel before the precious contents could spill. Alistair grabbed the lid and slammed it down onto the container and together King and Queen held onto it, panting with the fright of the near disaster.

The ex-Warden's first assault seemed to have drained the fight out of her, and she flagged against Loghain's chest, sobbing like a child. "Dear Maker, Loghain, I hate you for this…but _thank you."_

Loghain, who understood both her anger _and_ her fervent gratitude better than anyone else present except, perhaps, Elilia herself, held her close and stroked the long tail of her hair. "You're welcome."

"Yes. Well. We're all very happy that everything has worked out so well for all parties involved, but perhaps we could adjourn to elsewhere before we destroy a treasure of the ages?" Anora said brittlely, still sitting awkwardly on the steps with the urn in her lap.

"I agree. We have more than what we came for. Now let us leave, please," Alistair seconded.

"Fine, but let us set the Holy Lady to rights, first," Loghain said, uprighting the fallen pedestal and taking the urn from its protectors. "Like dusting off her skirts after knocking her down in the street."

Alistair arose and helped Anora to her feet. "All right, let's go," he said. To their mutual horror, however, Loghain removed the lid of the urn again, produced an empty coin purse from his belt, and scooped a large handful of the ashes into it. _And went back for more._

"What are you _doing?" _Anora asked, mortified.

"Andraste cures the Blight," Loghain said simply. "She was a Ferelden girl, they say, so I can't imagine she'd begrudge her homeland the salvation she offers."

"You can't…Loghain, this is utterly _blasphemous," _Alistair said, too bewildered to object more strenuously.

"The people who were corrupted during the Blight have all perished long ago, or gone to the Deep Roads as ghouls," Elilia said, looking more interested than objecting. "What is it you plan?"

"Let's leave this place before the Boss has a chance to object," Loghain said, looking around for the Guardian, "and I'll tell you."


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** This story was intended to end with putting down the invasion. Then it was meant to end after bringing Loghain to the ashes. Now I don't know _where_ it will end. They write themselves.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Fertility**

They did not immediately speak of the pilfered ashes Loghain carried tied to his belt loops after all, possibly because none of them thought it entirely prudent to do so while wending their way back down the mountain, for all they knew watched every step of the way by Andraste's immortal guardian spirit, or perhaps because all of them were feeling rather husked out by the experience and thinking somber thoughts. For her part the now _ex_-Warden vacillated between burning rage and manic joy, and the others allowed her to draw ahead of them for safety's sake.

Alistair and Anora dropped behind Loghain as well, letting him travel on ahead until they felt they had a safe distance between them for private words, though Anora cautioned her husband that her father's ears were keen. They walked together in silence for a little while, and then Anora said, with a mixture of wonder and bitterness in her voice, "I never knew a thing about my grandparents before today. _Father's _parents, I mean, of course - I grew up with my maternal grandfather, though my grandmother died when mother was a child. I knew my grandfather's name, and had been told by _King Maric _that he had been a Knight who died in his service, but father never spoke of them at all. Now I suppose I know why. Evidently Maric left out some pertinent details regarding my grandfather's death, if father feels he 'ran off and left him to die,' and still begrudges his 'sacrifice,' and I can't even begin to _imagine_ the horror of witnessing my mother raped and murdered before my eyes - nor do I want to. It's all very disturbing to take in at once, to say the least. And to top it all off, I'm not sure quite how to feel about the fact that the image of grandmother the spirit presented looked so _very_ much like mother."

"Don't read too much into it," Alistair said. "The image is a reflection of what the spirit sees in your soul, not the departed themselves. Frankly _I _thought she looked a bit like Wynne, and I'm sure the Ward - that _Elilia _saw someone who looked like Eleanor Cousland. When we were here before the shade was reflecting Eli's father, but to me he looked like Duncan, even though I'd seen portraits of the Teyrn and knew they were nothing alike."

Anora seemed relieved. "That is comforting to hear. I find something a bit disturbing in the idea that father would marry a woman who closely resembled his mother…all the more so because of what happened to her."

"What did you make of what he said in his answer to the Guardian about 'loving the woman betrothed to his best friend?'" Alistair said. Then he blanched as he realized that was rather a tactless question to pose to the man's _daughter, _of all people.

Anora sighed. "Queen Rowan. Do not look so, Alistair - there was nothing to it after she married the King and father married mother. He told mother when he met her that he'd been in love with Rowan, and she told me about it after the queen's death, when father went to Denerim to help King Maric. I don't think he ever really _stopped _loving her, either, but he loved my mother more, which is all I care about. I'm sure it made him feel terribly guilty, though, since his idea of fidelity is not unlike a mabari's and he doesn't understand that _humans_ are not driven to bond solely to one master for life. He expended a great deal of energy making continual restitution to mother for what he considered his _unfaithfuless_, though I've never heard so much as a peep from even the most vicious of quarters that father was ever a bounder or kept a mistress_._"She laughed, suddenly, surprising Alistair. "Someday I shall tell you about the rosebush he brought back from Denerim for my mother's garden. If _that_ wasn't self-imposed penance, I don't know what is."

Quizzical, wondering exactly how roses and penance worked together in such a way to make such a dry and occasionally acerbic lady as the Queen laugh aloud, Alistair made a mental note to remind her of her promise to tell that story as soon as they had leisure for it.

Anora was watching her father now with a thoughtful expression. "He hasn't been the same man since mother died - I know you find it hard to believe that he was ever anything approaching _domesticated, _but he certainly does better under the civilizing influence of a wife." Then her gaze rose to Elilia, far ahead in the distance, and her lips drew into a slight pout. "Of course, it _could _also be good for him to have a companion whose life experiences and outlooks are not so much different from his own."

Alistair caught her gaze before her meaning, and when at last he divined it he burst into a hearty laugh. "So you don't think Eli would be a _civilizing_ influence, but you think they could have a lot in common, eh? Please tell me you're not contemplating becoming a matchmaker for your own father."

She sighed. "I fear that is entirely unnecessary. I'd prefer he chose a more…gentle…woman but at least I cannot find fault with her lineage. Lady Elilia is wild but she has a stout heart and _usually_ honorable intentions. Not to mention she's excellent at producing valuable allies, which must mean she has more charm than she likes to let on."

"Maker's breath, Eli _is_ a Lady again, isn't she?" Alistair said, surprised. "Or is she? I mean, does her title automatically return to her just because she's no longer a Warden?"

"I think we would have to satisfy convention by hosting a ceremony to reinstate her to noble rank, and I'm sure Teyrn Fergus would like to see his sister officially honored so, but as far as I'm concerned she is as she was born. _We_ never took her title away from her, after all - the Wardens did that."

"And you think that Loghain is…that they would…" Alistair blushed and wiped his sweaty brow with his bandana. "You believe that rumor, don't you, about…_what went on_…last night?"

"Lady Elilia essentially confirmed it for me."

The look on Alistair's face said that he was considering something he did not like to be forced to consider. _"…Ew."_

"What are _you_ 'ew'ing about?" Anora demanded indignantly.

"Well, it's just that…oh bugger, I'm just going to say it - she's a _lot_ younger than he is, and beyond all that she was like a sister to me during our travels together, and he's my _father-in-law, _so that's just…_ew."_

"Well I'll leave you here to ponder that," Anora said primly. "I need to have a private word with my father."

Too dignified to trot, Anora walked away at a rapid pace and with a certain tilt to her head that said she was likely to be miffed with her husband for some time. He, however, was too distracted by the sight of her still-shapely backside swaying away with the golden mail clinging as seductively as such armor could ever be, and scarcely noticed her displeasure.

Anora caught up to Loghain, though she did not catch him unawares. "Hello, dear," he said absently as she approached. "Not too upset by what that fool spirit said, are you?"

"About…?" Anora ventured, uncertain which part he was referring to.

"About you and Cailan. And that bloody _conspiracy_ he mentioned you seemed to know all about. I want names, by the way, and I'll have a reckoning, by the Maker."

"Let it lie, father - it is water that passed under a bridge long burned. No, I'm not upset about any of that - I made my peace with those particular demons long ago, and if the memories still have the power to put a little sting in my heart they're still no more than memories. I've even learned to forgive Cailan. _And _the nobles involved. And here I am, still Queen, so I feel I've made good my revenge."

He chuckled a little at that and subsided, though Anora knew him well enough to believe that he would not content himself with docility and would likely attempt to ferret out the names some other time. He needed to be distracted, and distraction was a fine side-effect of courting.

She gestured at the Warden, who was at that moment lashing out with violence at a half-crumbled pillar that shook and crumbled still more beneath the force of her assault. "Go to her," she said.

"If I were wearing plate I might consider it, but in nothing but leathers I feel that would be suicidal at present," he said.

"She needs you," Anora insisted. "You took away the taint, and that is a good thing because she wanted to be free of it. But you also took away her _purpose_. You need to make her see that there is still good and noble work for a woman of her skill and courage, and that she need not feel bereft. The Wardens may have no further use for her, but you must make her see that _Ferelden_ still needs her."

He sighed. "I just hope she thinks that's _enough."_

She watched him trot to catch up to the lady. She had very deliberately _not_ told him to 'go forth and conquer yon damsel,' for such a command, even couched in terms of a request, was very apt to strike upon his perverse side, resulting in him assiduously ignoring Elilia until the end of days. Either relations between them would progress naturally…or they would not. Uncharacteristically optimistic about it all, Anora thought they probably would. Elilia Cousland had never struck her as the sort to seduce and abandon, and her father had not in all his years shown himself inclined to same, so _something _must exist between them, whether it be a burgeoning love or merely a strong attraction that could develop into something stronger with time and attention. She would content herself to wait and see.

Alistair caught up with her in time to watch with her as Lady Elilia raised a fist to Loghain, seemed to tremble upon the precipice of some intense urge, and then socked him on the arm. "For Eli, that's a friendly gesture," Alistair said, but he winced as Loghain rubbed the spot she'd struck. "Maybe a little harder than she usually hits, though. What did you say to him?"

"I told him that she needs him to help her come to terms with her new life. I'm hoping he can make her see how important she is to Ferelden, Warden or not. Not only is she one of our greatest Champions, but on the more practical day-to-day side of things she's a _Cousland. _If her brother continues to refuse to remarry, it may be up to her to supply a proper heir for the Teyrnir."

"With your father as the begetter," Alistair said, a little sourly.

"That's for the two of them to decide."

He sighed. "I suppose it is at that. Still hard for me to wrap my head around, though. I mean, the man hired the Antivan Crows to _kill _her."

"I suspect she's forgiven him for that. Mainly, perhaps, because its something she very well may have done herself if she felt the need."

"Elilia, hire assassins? Never. She'd much rather kill her enemies herself, face to face."

"So would my father. Sometimes you're just too busy to get around to it, however. Lady Cousland and my father are…a _lot_ alike. In many ways."

Alistair looked at the two warriors now walking peacefully side-by-side, hands not _quite_ touching, and could not believe it. "Loghain is serious and always stern. Elilia is merry and jocular - _even_ when she's in a blood-induced battle frenzy. I don't see it."

Anora's mouth curved in a slight smile. "Those are the masks they wear, painted a certain way just like an Orlesian's. Or if the analogy is too odious, like the way Elilia uses cosmetics to make herself more fierce rather than more attractive. Underneath the war paint, the machinery clicks along in very similar fashion."

Alistair pondered for a time, unconvinced, and eventually they reached the foothills and Loghain brought them to a halt at a nice clearing in a wooded area.

"We should camp here tonight," he said. "It's quite late and we don't want to be on the roads after dark. We can catch up with the army early enough tomorrow."

"We don't have provisions," Alistair said, and gave his wife a sidelong glance, "or tents and bedrolls."

She seemed amused. "Do you think I've never slept rough before, husband? I assure you I am quite capable of making do with packed earth and a campfire." She unslung her bow. "I can even provide us with the evening meal, I dare say."

"I'll find wood for the fire," Loghain said, and moved off into the forest in search of limbs and tinder.

"Well. I feel…superfluous," Alistair said whimsically as he and Elilia were abandoned to their own devices and the Mac Tir contingent set about making preparations for the camp. "Granted, that's a common feeling, for me."

Elilia began scratching together stones for the firepit. After a long period of silence, she finally spoke.

"When I was sixteen, my parents took me to Denerim for a grand salon Arl Eamon threw at his estate to celebrate Satinalia. Father said I was old enough to have my own adventures in town so he gave me some silver and let me have free run for the day as long as I promised to be back in time to get ready for the party. I was late, of course, and got back just in time to slide into my seat between mother and father at the banquet table for the feast - sporting my _brand-new face tattoo_. I thought mother would die of shock and shame. I think that was when the noble lords and ladies of Ferelden first started calling me 'The Cousland Barbarian' and even _father_ wasn't particularly happy with me about it - said it made me look like a vulgar sellsword. Seems appropriate now, since that's all I've left to do."

"Elilia, you do _not_ need to turn mercenary," Alistair protested. "Anora and I discussed it, and she's of a mind that you should be restored to your birthright as Ferelden nobility. I fully agree with her on that. We _need_ you, there's nobody I trust so much as I trust you, and with all that's going wrong with the world these days Ferelden needs her defenders."

She sighed. "I don't feel I deserve any such thing. Loghain may have intended for me to be guilt-free about this, but I'm not - I _wished_ this upon myself, and I feel bereft of honor."

"You'll get over it," Loghain said gruffly, coming back into the clearing with an armload of twigs and brush. He began laying out a careful chimney of branches over dry tinder in Elilia's firepit and lit the stack with a spark from the flint he carried always. "And personally I _like_ your ink, though I can imagine the fuss your folks made."

The blaze was going to his satisfaction so he stood up and crossed to where she sat and pushed her hanging head up to meet his eyes with a finger beneath her jaw line. _"Chin up and plod on."_

A fire seemed to spark in her eyes, a moment of anger perhaps, but then a different look settled onto her restless features and she nodded firmly.

"Are you going to tell us your plans for Lady Andraste?" Alistair asked, to change the subject.

"While dinner is cooking, if we're fortunate enough to have any."

"_You shan't, if you don't come help me with it," _Anora called out from some distance. She sounded slightly out of breath. Loghain headed in that direction and returned with his daughter by his side and a good-sized buck slung over his shoulder. "Hoped for a brace of rabbits at the least," Anora said, sounding rather self-satisfied. "I expect this is much better after a hard day's work on short commons."

"Maker's breath, but we _have_ had a day, haven't we?" Alistair said, awed. "The battle feels like it happened a lifetime ago, but its been less than a dozen hours."

Loghain took his belt knife and dressed out the deer with speed and efficiency born of long practice. "This blade isn't as good as the one I gave Duncan," he said, grinning, "but it's serviceable enough, I suppose." He built a stand out of branches and spitted one of the back haunches and set it to roast.

"So what are your plans?" Alistair said, drawing the subject back to Andraste's ashes.

Instead of answering directly, Loghain reached into the map pocket on his belt and took out a well-worn parchment. He spread it on the ground so that they could all gather around it to see. It was a map of Ferelden but the borders were not quite correct, pushing far into the holdings of Orlais and even encompassing part of the Free Marches. It was either the work of a power-hungry tyrant with a lunatic streak, or the whimsical doodle of a fanciful imagination. His dark glare dared them to say something about it. No one did.

"Here's where the Darkspawn first attacked," he said, pointing to Ostagar with a stick of charcoal he also took from his map pocket. "Of course they eventually spread across the entire face of Ferelden but as you know there are certain areas of the bannorn that still bear witness to their passage."

He swiftly sketched a line straight north from the ruined fortress through the village of Lothering, now only a Blighted memory, almost to the middle of the bannorn. Fast strokes of charcoal roughed out a dark black stain on the map that covered all the land now laying useless and abandoned, unable to produce much-needed crops or sustain livestock, an area of about a hundred square miles of vital farmland and more still of forest and marsh. The region he marked out was quite accurate, by Alistair's accounting, but something about it…

"Andraste's sweet flaming skirts!" he swore colorfully. "That looks just like a - "

He stopped himself, embarrassed, but Loghain nodded grimly.

"A cock and balls? Yes, it does at that. Very appropriate, considering that what the Darkspawn _did, _essentially, was to rape us up the backside."

Elilia groaned and covered her face with both hands. "Loghain, if you had ever encountered what happens to the female captives the Darkspawn take when they raid, and if fate had chosen to bless you with a womb instead of testicles, you would not be so keen to make such a metaphor."

He waved that aside. "What the Blighted lands look like on a map is of no consequence. What they mean to the hundreds of poor Fereldens who scrape and scrabble and can just barely manage to feed themselves is more important. If those lands were fertile again, it would be that much easier to feed our people - _and _put a lot of our unemployed back to gainful work."

"So you want to…spread the ashes…on the _land?" _Alistair asked.

Loghain nodded. "Or sow them into the ground."

"A fine idea, if it works," Anora said, somewhat doubtfully. "But would we have enough ashes to cure it _all?"_

Loghain shrugged. "If we manage to take back only a little land, 'tis better than none at all. Hard to say how many acres per pinch could be restored."

"With the size of _your_ pinches we'd run out of Andraste within half a mile," Elilia said, eyes still irritated and apparently smarting from the dusting she'd received. "Better let _me_ measure out the doses."

"All right, my Lady Cousland, by all means, do. Seems fitting enough to _me_ that you should save Ferelden's ass from the flames again, assuming that it works."

Though she'd clearly been jesting, at Loghain's words her face grew reluctantly contemplative. "I could organize a bit of an expedition, I suppose," she said slowly, "make something of an adventure out of it. After all, there are always plenty of places to go and people to kill in the wild spaces of Ferelden. And if it works, 'twould be a worthwhile endeavor."

While Anora was glad to hear the former Warden take even a half-hearted interest in something, she pursed her lips and felt disgruntled. If she was off on what could potentially be a months-long trip to the south reaches then she _wouldn't_ be around for any romance to bloom, and Anora found that a trifle disheartening. She was beginning to _like _the mental story she was spinning of her father's courtship to this wild woman, and their eventual marriage. Then Elilia looked at Loghain almost shyly and said, "You could come with me, if you want. It was your idea, after all."

Loghain regarded her steadily for a moment, then nodded slowly. "An adventure in the wilds with the Cousland Barbarian? That sounds grand indeed."


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** Obviously Loghain did a lot more to rile the bannorn than just assume the regency and call them to action, which will be addressed in later chapters undoubtedly. I just wanted to get something off my chest within the context of his rant that always bothered me: Ferelden nobility seems so wrapped up in the idea of INDIVIDUAL independence that they're quite willing to allow the whole damned country to go to the devil.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: The Sweet Taste of Victory**

As Loghain had promised they arrived back at the army encampment bright and early the next morning. Healing and other such duties had proceeded apace without them under Teyrn Fergus's guidance, but there was such a lot of things to do that it was likely they would not be ready for the triumphant march back to Denerim for another day at the least. Loghain had not had a chance to properly absorb the fact of the victory, and the battle seemed to have taken place so very long ago that he was surprised to still see dead on the field. Great pyres stood ready to receive the bodies of the fallen Ferelden soldiers as well as the one Circle mage who perished, but there was apparently some confusion over what to do with the six dead dwarves and the dead werewolf, not to mention the scores of slaughtered Chevaliers. With a deep sigh and an expressive roll of the eyes, Loghain cut through the chaos by simply asking the dwarves and werewolves what they'd like done for their dead. The dwarves, of course, wanted to take their fallen back to Orzammar and "return them to the stone," which they were quite welcome to do, and the werewolves seemed puzzled at the thought that _anything _should be done for their late brother-at-arms. "If the humans have some problem with leaving him to be properly eaten, then they are welcome to burn him with their own dead."

"What about the Orlesians?" Fergus said, when Loghain told him these things. "There are so _many."_

"They'd stand as one hell of a warning, for some months at least," Loghain said. Alistair heard and was, predictably, shocked.

"We're not just leaving them there, are we?" he said, appalled. "We _have_ to burn them, if not for propriety's sake, then for the _smell _and the _illness_ dead bodies spread."

"Smell and illness? There is no village nearby," Loghain said blandly.

"But this is an important trade route regardless!"

"With _Orlais," _Loghain said patiently. "And even if _you're_ really fool enough to continue to treat with them after this, _they_ might not be willing."

Anora stepped smoothly into the breach, olive branch at the ready. "Very true, father, but there is value in being perceived as merciful. If we were to properly burn the Orlesian dead and return the ashes to their homeland, that would send the message that Ferelden is prepared to be _magnanimous_, which might net us nothing from Orlais herself but which could be looked upon with great favor by other nations. We could gain allies from such a move. Then, too, sending Orlais such a very _large _container of ashes as would doubtless be necessary would send _another_ message…"

"That message being, 'Don't fuck with Ferelden,'" Loghain said, concisely if crudely. "All right, then, waste wood if you're going to, but if you're going to burn 'em, burn 'em _separately. _No Ferelden who died for their country ought to suffer the indignity of being mixed up in the ashes of a bunch of painted ponces. Nor the werewolf, neither, though evidently they don't care about such things. He - or maybe 'twas a she - may not have bent knee to any human lord but it fought alongside us bravely and should be accorded all appropriate honors as a soldier of this nation. The mage, too, though I know the Chantry will moan about _that._ We should honor the dwarves for their sacrifice as well, though they're making their own arrangements for the disposition of their dead."

"I'll talk to the Lady of the Forest and find out the werewolf's name…and gender," Elilia interjected, with a lopsided grin. "I'll make sure it's entered properly in the record of the fallen. I suppose I can do the same with the dwarves and the mage - I talked them all into fighting for us, after all. You've got most of the regular army sorted already, don't you, Fergus?"

He nodded. He was looking at his sister rather strangely, Loghain noticed, and he thought he knew why - even though ordinary people couldn't exactly _sense_ the Taint they could always tell that something was slightly "off" about Wardens, and Elilia had lost that wrongness. "There are still soldiers unaccounted for, partly because some of the dead have been…_difficult_ to identify. The unfortunate results of friendly-fire, both from the mages and the golems. We hope still to find the rest lost among the scores of Orlesian dead and wounded."

"What are we doing for the Orlesian wounded, by the way?" Alistair asked.

_Kill 'em, and add 'em to the burn pile, _Loghain wanted to say, but kept his peace.

Teyrn Fergus looked embarrassed. "Nothing as _yet, _Your Majesty. Our Healers are stretched to their limits as it is, and I did not wish to commit valuable resources without your express approval."

"Well, we certainly don't want to take care from our own men, but we should definitely treat as many of the Orlesians as we can save."

Fergus looked pained. "And do what with them, Your Majesty? They number in the hundreds, possibly even more than a thousand. I fear we have not the manpower to take so many prisoners, and then there would of course be the logistics of holding them, and presumably feeding them."

"We cannot take them prisoner," Anora said firmly. "They are too numerous. Slay them."

"What? No!" Alistair protested. Anora cut him off aggressively before he could say more.

"And what are our options if we do not, Alistair? Waste our few healers' talents and our limited medical supplies on men so badly wounded that many shall doubtless perish regardless, only to stuff them into every dungeon we can find from here to Denerim to rot and starve because we can barely feed our own citizens? Or perhaps you would prefer that we heal those who can be healed and then send them home to Orlais, there to rejoin new regiments and march against us anew? That does not strike me as sound planning, either."

Though her words were harsh her expression, for a wonder, was not. She looked, if anything, rather haggard at that moment. Maybe even sad. "This is the part of ruling you've yet to master. Sometimes being King means you _must _be cruel."

He hung his head, abashed. Most un-Kingly, but that was Alistair. "You're right, of course," he said glumly.

Elilia put a hand on his shoulder. "Think of it this way, Al - any Chevalier who couldn't run from the battle was most likely hurt very badly, and most likely the best thing we could ever offer them at this point is a swift and merciful death. For the ones who would have made it…well, at least its quick, and an honorable death for a soldier. More so than dying in prison, at any rate."

Alistair called over his shoulder to Loghain. "Did my father ever master this part of the job?"

Loghain shook his head. "He did it, when it was necessary. Can't say that he ever got particularly good at it, though. But that's what _I _was for."

"Doing His Majesty's dirty work."

"Sometimes it was dirty. Most of the time just dreadfully disagreeable. All of it an unfortunate necessity of ruling a nation, perhaps particularly one so wild and little united as this."

"Little united."

"That may be exaggeration. Might be closer to the mark to say 'not united at all.'" The King turned to look at him, questions in his guileless eyes, and so he condescended to expound. "We fielded five thousand regular army. How many more could we have fielded had more of the bannorn been able to rally their troops for us? Twice that? My guess is closer to _three times _that. How much easier this battle would have been if we'd had fifteen thousand men on the field. I'm sure they didn't _refuse_ their aid, that would be stupid of them, but they would have prevaricated, sending back word that there were complications with their equipment, or delays in troop movement, anything and everything to avoid having to make a definite promise as to exactly _when_ they could send their men. And all because they're too small-minded to see past their own little demesne to the welfare of the _whole_. Do you think that little prick _Kendalls_ would have bothered sending out his troops if he didn't live practically at the feet of the royal palace?"

The little prick in question was standing not too far off, and was predictably offended, but when he made to make some protest Loghain shot him a thunderous glare and he subsided. "I see the shields of Highever, Dragon's Peak, West Hills, Redcliffe, South Reach, and Gwaren, and I see the shields of the Amaranthine regulars, as well - and most of them sent far _fewer_ men than I'm sure they had, but at least they sent them. But where are Oswin? Whitewater Falls? Dunlan? Rainsfere? Where are _two score _of banns? They come out of the woodwork at the Landsmeet, to squabble like mongrels over pig knuckles, eager to wrest some concession or other from the Crown and the rest of the nation for their own little rat-spit pickings, which are all they care about. Its always been a bloody wonder to me that anything is _ever_ resolved in this damned country, and most of the time it just gets argued over continually forever. Don't believe me? Just try getting the fucking hemorrhoids to stand and fight for their country when there's no King on the throne. _Maker's breath, _I don't miss politics."

Bann Teagan bridled at those last few sentences and put himself quite in the former Teyrn's path. "You _demanded_ that we - " he began, furious.

"I _demanded _only that you defend your homeland," Loghain said, as he pushed the nominal Arl of Redcliffe onto his backside in the mud rather gently, all things considered. "I don't count you among the vultures who opposed me _just_ to make a play for the Crown, Teagan, but your little outburst on the floor that day fed the flames of dissention nicely. I was wrong about the Darkspawn threat, and maybe not altogether correct about the immediacy, at least, of the threat from Orlais, but the civil war that erupted after that did _much_ to ensure the devastation of our nation. Perhaps I could have stood to be more _diplomatic_ when I addressed the Landsmeet, but by the Maker, I never realized before that day that I would have to _kiss ass _to get the lords of this nation to stand and defend it. Blame me for naiveté, I suppose."

Evidently King Alistair had recently tasted some of the bitter flavor of trying to pull his rag-tag country together, because he smiled sickly and made no attempt to defend the man who he considered an uncle. "Hard words for the bannorn, Loghain," he said. "And yet you claim to love this nation?"

Loghain tossed his head like an impatient horse. "A man may love his homeland and _despise_ its government quite easily. But I've proven that I can do nothing to change it, so I suppose I have no right to bitch. And it could always be worse. The sodding _Free Marches _can't even solidify into a genuine nation."

"You'd rather we ruled in the manner of Orlais, with the Crown seizing all power and granting the privileged few only the right to lick the King's boots and trample the peasantry?" Teagan said, more subdued but still smarting and fuming.

"If the Maker Himself came and told me that was the proper way to run the country I would spit in His eye and tell Him to piss off," Loghain said. "We need _solidarity and organization, _not tyranny. As it is we have a King and Queen attempting to rule over a grand mess of _smaller _Kings- and Queens-in-their-own-minds, and we should not be surprised at the resulting chaos."

Nobody seemed to have anything more to say to that, or more likely nobody wanted _Loghain_ to say anything further since he looked, at that moment, close to murder, so orders were given and the various nobles drifted back to their own little regiments, not a few of them thinking mutinous thoughts. Fergus Cousland, loyal defender of the throne that he was, did not exactly feel that what he'd heard was _incorrect_, but Loghain had stood by the man who slaughtered his family, whether or not he'd had prior knowledge of the actual sacking of Highever, and so he went about his duties much disturbed in mind. His sister seemed to trust the man, perhaps even to _like_ him, and Fergus trusted Elilia. Perhaps Loghain was a man of honor despite it all, though he did not think that honor was _spotless…_

After a time Elilia sought him out, bearing with her a scroll of parchment upon which she had noted not only the names of the allied deceased but the living as well. "Thought it would be good to get them on official record now," she said as she loped up in her rangy way. "The werewolves won't want to stand in the city square for official thanks, after all; the Chantry would probably brand our poor mages if they took their proper bows, and the dwarves want to head straight back to Orzammar 'before they lose their stone-sense,' which is too bad, because the golems would look marvelous in a royal procession." She noticed her brother's discomfiture, and correctly divined the cause. "Long dark thoughts about Howe, right?"

"Why did you spare his life?" Fergus asked. She didn't need to ask whose life he was referring to. She shrugged expressively.

"He surrendered."

"There had to be more to it than _that."_

"There's a _lot_ more to it than that, but it boils down to that in the end. Perhaps you'll understand better if I put it this way instead: I spared him because I _get_ him."

"You…'get' him…" Fergus said doubtfully.

"I _get_ him. I understand where he's coming from. Maker help me, _I could see his side of things._ He was wrong, but I would have been _equally_ wrong had I been the one in his position."

Fergus scoffed, "Elilia, you would never do - "

"Oh, but I would, Fergus, and I have. Maker willing, you'll never have to know just how far I've gone in the pursuit of what I saw as my duty. Some of the things I've done may be worse than anything Loghain had a hand in. And because I understand him, I understood _exactly_ why someone like _that_ would ever take a knee rather than fight to the last bloody breath, as that slimy bastard Howe did. By that time he _knew_ he couldn't stand alone before the wolves and protect Ferelden, but he needed to see whether I _could _before he'd step aside and let me. And he yielded, knowing I was virtually honor-bound to slay him regardless, to show not just me but every jack in that Landsmeet that he knew I was. And if I could bring _him_ to his knees, who among them would have had the stones to defy me further?"

Teyrn Fergus smiled wanly. "And you saw all that, did you, in the heat of the moment, with his neck turned to your blade and your future King calling for his blood?"

"In the heat of the moment I saw a proud foe proudly girding himself to accept whatever punishment I saw fit to mete out. No, I had set myself to win an ally that day, if at all possible, though I confess I never thought he'd actually submit. He doesn't exactly have a precedent for it, does he? I wanted Anora for Queen, and she wanted her father alive. She'd still have married Alistair if I'd killed him, I'm sure - she's her father's daughter and she does her duty, regardless of how distasteful or outright dishonorable she finds it - but she wouldn't exactly have been my biggest fan thenceforward. Then, too, its better to have a man like Loghain at your back than at your throat. I think yesterday proved the wisdom of that."

"Sister, I think it would be wise for you not to show Loghain too much favor," Fergus ventured, a little timidly. "The men have been _delighted_ to bandy about the most unfortunate and unsupportable rumor - "

"That Loghain spent the night before the battle in my tent, Big Brother?" Elilia interjected. "And what if he did?"

"Please do not bait me, Sister," Fergus pleaded. "I seek only to protect your reputation."

She laughed harshly. "My reputation requires no such protection, Brother, I assure you. And unfortunately I am not baiting you, either. Loghain and I spent the night together. Is that truly so very terrible to think of?"

Fergus shook his head, his eyes closed. "You were always rather…_unpredictable, _Sister, but this…this…"

"Loghain is a great warrior, Brother, and he has known what hell it is to be a Warden, which few can understand. I find him quite…_attractive, _even though he looks as if the Maker were in something of a hurry when He made him."

Fergus barked laughter, though probably not at his sister's mild humor. "I…cannot speak of this now with you, Sister. A later day, when I have had time to wrap my mind around this fresh horror, we will talk more on it. I beg you only, as one who loves you dearly, not to act further upon this so-called attraction until we have had a chance to discuss this thoroughly."

"Until you have had time to marshal your most compelling objections and persuasive threats, you mean," Elilia said, somewhat haughtily. "I shall do as I have always done, Brother, and follow my own heart and mind. It seems to have served me well so far. _'Hero of Ferelden,' _and all that. But if we must, we may speak later. Right now I'm going to go track down that cute little mage that healed Loghain. She'll be turning apostate, unless she _wants_ to go back to the Circle and be punished, and I have a job offer for her."

She left Fergus then, and went to find her mage, but she found Loghain first - or rather the other way around. He pulled her behind one of the supply wagons to speak privately.

"Did you tell your brother about what I did to you?" he asked, and with that conversation still fresh in her mind she misinterpreted the question.

"He left me no choice. And of course now he feels that you have utterly besmirched my heretofore _impeccable_ reputation," she said, with an eloquent roll of the eyes.

"In what way?" Loghain asked indignantly.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because of what happened during the civil war, or more likely because you don't have a title anymore."

Loghain looked at her for a moment in utter bemusement, then shook his head slowly. "I feel morally certain that we could _not _be speaking of the same thing."

"Wait - what _were_ you speaking of?"

"You remember - the little accident I had on purpose with the ashes?"

"Oh!" She blushed momentarily bright red, the first time he'd ever seen her evince humiliation. "No, no, I didn't say anything about that. I don't think it's a good idea to spread that information around very far, if possible, at least for now. It's going to be bloody hard to explain and I'm sure there'll be a reckoning with the Wardens, which I don't care to think about now."

"Good, because neither do I. Time enough to deal with it all later, when there's a bit of time to think first. Wait - what did you think _I _was speaking of?"

"Well, rumor has it…"

He frowned. "Rumor…?"

She sighed and laughed. "You're not the only early riser in an army camp, you know."

"People have been…talking."

"They tend to do that, not that you'd know anything about it, God of the Silent."

He ignored the jibe. "Who else knows?"

"Everybody," Elilia said lightly.

"_My Lady…"_

"Everybody that matters, at any rate. Fergus. The King and Queen - well, the Queen at least, though I expect she'll have told Alistair by now. Probably the other nobles have heard, and by now the tale has circulated quite thoroughly among the soldiers and has most likely grown most sordid indeed. Are you worried about _your_ reputation, perhaps? Or that I would use this in some way to ensnare you? You needn't. I am capable of taking the hint."

"_What _hint?"

"Not that I've much experience in such matters, but when a man leaves a woman's bed - or bed_roll_, in this case - before dawn and without waking her, he's saying, 'Thank you, but no more please.' And that suits me well enough."

"You think that I - " His face worked for a moment as he tried to find the right words or actions. The one he settled upon was risky. He took her face in his hands and brought his mouth down onto hers with almost bruising force. She resisted momentarily, but then her own hands plunged into his hair and she kissed back. When he pulled back a bit after a long moment she looked disappointed. "Sometimes a man is just saying that he'd like to let the lady sleep."

"You made not the slightest sign…I thought you just wanted to forget."

"_You _made no sign either, leastwise to me," Loghain pointed out, his amusement faintly evident in his voice. "Given that we had not a private moment to speak of it, it seemed to me wise to wait for a better moment for frank discussion of what passed between us…and what might come of it."

"What…_might _come of it?" Elilia asked hesitantly.

"Depends on what you _want_ out of it, I suppose. I can't imagine its something you'd actually want to repeat, but it wouldn't be the first time I've been wrong about something."

She drew back with a sly look. "Well, I guess I'll have to think about that. And soon, if we're truly going to travel together, sleeping rough beneath the stars in the wild places with no one at all to tell us what to do and what _not _to…"

"Something to look forward to, at any rate. You do realize, of course, that the Crown is going to have plenty of work for both of us, most like, before we can ever see if my foolish little fancy has any foothold in reality? Anora would _love_ to swap you out for one of her more troublesome Banns, I'm sure."

"Probably so, but we're going just the same, as soon as we can break away. Which reminds me, I was looking for that mousey little healer girl - I'd like her to come along. You seem to have been looking for a place to die lately, and it's not happening on _my _watch."


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **No, you're not crazy, I skipped chapter thirteen. I'm not superstitious, but a story I wrote long ago (See "Captain Hook: Damnation/Redemption") was about superstitious pirates so I skipped the chapter "in deference to their sensibilities." I can't explain why some things are so gratifying to me, but I've been merrily cutting Unlucky Thirteen from any and all fanfics with titled chapters ever since (I don't do it in my original works, but fanfic is a very different beast for me as it is solely for my personal pleasure). If the disconnect between the chapter number on site and the chapter number henceforward appended to the title makes your head explode, I personally guarantee your money back. (Which, since you never paid me any, costs me absolutely nothing to promise.)

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**Chapter Fourteen: Victory March**

Most of the mages casually melted into the wilderness before the army even began to march, but a small handful stayed on, hoping their service would gain them clandestine support from the King and Queen, and perhaps under-the-table appointments in the army or the palace itself - and they probably would, too, as long as they continued to behave themselves. After all, as the Divine had apparently once again come down in favor of Orlesian occupation of Ferelden, the royal family wasn't likely to be tremendously popular with the Chantry for the foreseeable future, even if the Ferelden clergy had not received any word. Loghain was of a mind to suggest kicking the bloody Chantry _out_ of Ferelden, but even he could see the flaws in that plan. People needed their godhead, of course, even though he couldn't quite understand why the Maker required demure women backed up by a well-supplied army to liaison with what was supposedly His favorite creation. _Not that everybody in the clergy is a corrupt hag_, he thought to himself in an effort at fairness. He was thinking of one sister in particular who had come to be very like a mother to him in a very bad time, not that he'd ever told her so even years later when she showed him the place where she'd laid his father's ashes to rest and he'd wept openly before her.

He didn't like to think such things, but from time to time he questioned not only the Chantry but the Maker Himself. It seemed to him rather suspicious that the "true" god did not seem to be the _first_. And how could any other god, real or false, ever usurp power from the ultimate god? He was not much given to the sort of deep philosophical musing that engendered such questions, and he certainly didn't have the education required to support or refine his wonderings, but sometimes that whole story of Andraste - how the beauty of Her song caught the Maker's attention and so He whispered to Her wonderful things and convinced Her to raise an army in His name - sounded more than a little dubious, at best. Either the Maker was something a clever and _powerful_ woman created out of wholecloth to raise support for her crusade against Tevinter, or perhaps the Maker was real…but not _strong _enough to depose the old gods on His own. A sly Trickster god lurking in the shadows until He found a strong Champion to do His dirty work for Him. And then He left her to the bloody flames. Or he supposed there was a third option, that Andraste was off her bleeding conk.

Or a fourth option: that he was a paranoid old man who spent too damned much time thinking about things he knew nothing of.

Elilia had tracked down her mage, at last. Loghain vaguely recalled speaking briefly to a healer shortly before being dragged off into the mountains on a quest he would still consider a tremendous waste of valuable time had not two rather dreadful mistakes been rectified: neither the King nor Elilia were now Wardens, which meant they were now free to do their proper duty by their country without interference from foreign powers. With the full pouch of ashes at his belt holding the hope of a fruitful future for the bannorn he felt pretty good about that particular day's work. He would have to warn Alistair and Anora not to speak of the ashes he'd taken, not that he expected Anora at least would require that warning, because it seemed likely enough to him that the Grand Cleric would consider sowing the earth with the ashes of the Prophetess rank sacrilege. If it didn't work they could always put the ashes in a vault at the palace, for emergency use, or he supposed he could even be persuaded to return them to the temple if Alistair wheedled hard enough, though he wouldn't relish telling that Guardian fellow that he'd taken two scoops of Andraste. The mere fact that he hadn't reappeared immediately seemed to suggest a sort of tacit approval, however - it was hard to imagine a creature like _that _did not know what they were doing at all times in his domain.

The men left behind at the battlefield would be in charge of continuing the burning of the Orlesian dead, which was going to take awhile. They'd been left with five large chests that had been emptied of the medical supplies they'd carried, and most likely they were going to fill all of them with the ashes once they were done, which would certainly be a "message" to the Empress and her toads. A smaller vessel containing a portion of the communal ashes of the Ferelden dead rode in state with the Revered Mother and her priests, and the rest had been respectfully buried before they began burning the Chevaliers. They'd left a decent force of men at the border to guard it under the command of Ser Cauthrien -_ King's Protector _Ser Cauthrien, these days, governing the teyrnir of Gwaren held in conservatorship for Baby Anora, and Loghain was quite proud of his protégé, though he thought she looked rather more harassed by the tribulations of governance than she ever had as a commander of soldiers, something he could certainly sympathize with - and the rest of the army was now two days out of Sulcher's Pass, on their way back to Denerim and the grand victory celebration that Anora was probably already busy planning, if the number of scouts she was sending ahead of them meant anything. Knowing her, it meant several days of meticulously-detailed festivities, with parades, feasts, ceremonies, and dances. He glowered in her direction. As much as he wanted to see Duncan and Baby Anora again, the idea of the celebrations that lay ahead filled him with a sense of dread. Hopefully, not having any title or even official rank within the army, he would not be forced to attend…but he seriously doubted that.

Thinking about the prospect of being put on display galled him, and he turned his gaze back to Elilia and her new pet. He had not yet been introduced to the mage and remembered little about her since he'd been too busy trying not to choke on his own blood at the time he met her, and Elilia seemed to have decided to take her brother's warnings about propriety to heart, at least for the march home. Probably for the best, truth be told, but he still felt a pang of disappointment every time she briskly steered her charge away from him if he strayed too near, or favored him with a supercilious smile and a nod of condescension as she passed by wordlessly in camp. One might have thought that she was old enough by now to have settled a bit, but it seemed she was still the same coltish spitfire that had been simultaneously the trial and pride of her parents.

Elilia - for the moment at least still known as the Warden to the others marching with them - had not yet noticed his eyes upon them, so he was free to look his fill. The mage was quite petite, particularly next to the young giantess with her mighty sword, and though he could not tell beneath the tasseled hood she wore, Loghain thought she was probably an elf. The bodice of her dull buff-colored robes was quilted and the faintly ridiculous hobble skirt was patterned oddly like snakeskin, though he did not believe it to be made of any sort of leather. He had but limited experience with the Circle, not enough to know for certain that there was any sort of uniform for the mages, but he had a vague understanding that robes of that style were supplied only to elven females. There appeared to be no difference at all in the style of robes worn by human and elven men. Made no sense at all to him, but what did he know of magic aside from the fact that it was useful when it was on his side and deuced annoying when it was used against him? He wondered at the color she wore. Most of the Circle mages he'd met dressed at all times like gaudy peacocks, but this one seemed more like a peahen. He found it hard to imagine that she would have the guts or the stamina to be of any use to them on a long hike through the bannorn, but she'd survived the battle so she was either tougher than she looked or smart enough to keep the hell out of the way. And it would be useful to have a healer along, he supposed. Even though he was working on changing his fighting style to suit his advancing years he always ended up bloody sooner or later, and Elilia was a magnet for trouble. If they were lucky she'd know a good fighting spell or two, as well.

_Too old to keep using myself as a battering ram, _Loghain thought grimly. _Too bad I'm _also _too old to fight with much nimbleness, instead. Perhaps it would be best to just keep throwing myself headfirst into the thick of things. Dying in battle would be far preferable to wasting away of some disease or even just the steady ravages of cruel Time._

It was funny to think about, but not in a laughing sort of way, that of the triumvirate of friends that led Ferelden to victory over their oppressors, _he_ was the only one still living. He'd always expected to die first - if not in battle then by hanging, as an old woman rumored to be a hedge witch near where he'd spent his earliest childhood said he was born for. Certainly he'd never thought to worry about the possibility that he would one day be _old. _Yet here he was, silver-haired and if not exactly sage then at least beaten into a weary sort of wisdom that was as close as he was likely to come. In the fewest possible words, it sucked.

He supposed there was still every possibility that he could one day be hanged.

"What thought makes _you_ so cheerful all of a sudden?" a voice at his elbow said, startling him. He turned his head to see that Elilia had dropped back to walk beside him.

"Oh, does the Lady deign to speak with me, a lowborn soldier?" he asked in mock surprise. "What will her noble brother say?"

She waved it off with an expansive gesture. "I've decided that its time I inflicted you upon our new companion. It would be well to see if she can survive the shock."

"Very droll."

Elilia gestured to the little mage, who was still walking ahead of them, casting shy peeks over her shoulder every few steps. She fell back to join them, and Elilia put an arm around her shoulders companionably, or perhaps protectively. Loghain couldn't quite tell which.

"This is Seanna Surana, late of Kinloch Hold. Seanna, this is Loghain Mac Tir. He used to have a lot of high and mighty titles, but he's just a regular slob now. Except for being the Queen's father, of course, which I suppose is a high and mighty title on its own."

Seanna? That was a slippery-sounding name, and he doubted he'd be able to manage it without a lot of practice. The mage pushed back her hood for the first time, revealing the expected pointed ears and large, luminous eyes. "An honor, Ser," she said, in the same very quiet, deferential voice he vaguely remembered.

"Your skills as a healer will be greatly appreciated, I expect. Can you do anything else?" he said, and then silently cursed his clumsy tongue for its perpetual brusqueness as she flinched at the question. He sincerely hoped she hadn't taken it to mean…anything untoward.

"I know a few elemental spells," she said shyly, "and a lot of spells of support. Useless in terms of bolstering an army, but quite handy for aiding a small party that may have need to fight. I can also cook, and fetch water, and dig latrines if that's what you need me to do. I can even provide some entertainment - " here she looked momentarily both embarrassed and alarmed - "by which I mean I know many stories and can sing a few songs."

"What has the Warden told you about our plans, exactly?" he asked.

She looked momentarily confused, and Elilia said cheerfully, "Well, I told her not to call me 'the Warden,' for starters, Loghain, so it is unnecessary for _you_ to stand on foolish ceremony."

"I see. _Elilia_ then - what has she told you about what we are to do?"

"She said that you would be making an expedition into the Blighted lands, possibly all the way into the Wilds."

"It is indeed possible, though I couldn't guess at this point whether it is likely. You understand that even if we do not go so far as that, we will be traveling light and likely living rather rough? If our plans meet with success there is no telling how long we'll be on the road, either."

"I understand, Ser. I don't mind hardship." A bitter edge crept into her voice at those words, and Elilia's look to him over her head said that she would have things of significance to tell him at a later time.

The little mage still looked young and weak to him but Elilia had a keen eye for allies, so he supposed she'd work out. And despite the deference and respect in her voice at most times, there was a wary underpinning to her shyness, an almost feral mistrust dancing beneath the layer of unassuming civility. He suspected she had a Past, despite the way the Circle seemed tailor-made to prevent its inmates from having any lives at all. He made an effort to speak kindly as he told her she was very welcome to join their venture. It was best to tread lightly with mages, after all, and if she'd suffered in her life he had some sympathy for her. It couldn't be easy to be locked away and reviled for an accident of birth, and being an elf as well probably made it all the harder, no matter what they said about mages being treated equally. They could not offer her the freedom and safety she would have enjoyed as a Grey Warden, of course, but if she sought to escape the Circle's confines by joining them - well, in the current political climate, Loghain was quite willing and happy to defend her from any Chantry stooge that came to harass her.

"I told her she could stay with me while we're in Denerim, so the Queen doesn't have to put herself out finding her another room," Elilia said, with a significance to her voice Loghain understood. Anora might order suitable lodgings for the guest of her favored champion and her father, but the servants who fulfilled that order would have their own ideas of what was "suitable" for an elf. The visitor's suite Elilia would be occupying, since she did not wish to stay at the Warden's compound, would no doubt be large enough and comfortable enough for the two of them, particularly since it was doubtful that the mage was truly any more used to grand luxury than Elilia was these days. It was a good arrangement in another way, as well, for Elilia would be present to stop any impertinent inquiry into the girl's talents as well as to chaperone her integrity, since even well-disciplined palace guards were not unknown to treat female elves as fair game, despite the penalties enforced by royal decree.

"So we keep waving to the freeholders and pandering to the Banns that offer us their rather limited hospitality on the way, and when we reach Denerim its 'Smile Smile Smile' - _'Scowl Scowl Scowl' _in Loghain's case, since that's the only facial expression he's capable of - and play up the victory for the cheering masses. I only hope the Royal Personages don't make us detour to any of the larger cites along the way for more of the same - I'm ready to have it done with already and it hasn't even started."

"You and me both," Loghain muttered.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **I based much of my version of Loghain for this story upon my older brother, beyond what we get of his appearance and persona from canon (I know that sounds gross considering there's a romantic aspect at play, but I wasn't basing THAT on my brother). "Waste of jaw energy" is Tim's definition of anything beyond steak and potatoes, really. And yes, _"Fete _Accompli" is deliberate - a double-entendre both for the fact that the parties are more or less done by the time this chapter starts, and that Anora's plans are completely set and unalterable. Oh, and furthermore, I love Simon Templeman(Loghain - and Caladrius, and Bann Ceorlic, and Mervis the Merchants Guild Contact (and Judge Zargabath, although that's a different fandom but still a favorite))'s voice. I'm playing up the growly aspects because Loghain _does _spend so much time speaking harshly that it's a bit of a surprise to hear the character speaking normally.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen: Fete Accompli**

"Please, my Lady, do remain still! These alterations are very delicate!"

"Ouch! Damn you, woman, you stabbed me!"

"With a _pin, _Elilia," Queen Anora said, sounding both amused and exasperated. "You've been stabbed by worse."

The beleaguered dressmaker made another minute adjustment to the bodice of the garment she was measuring. "It shall be over soon, my Lady, I swear it." Indeed, she was obviously quite looking forward to having done with her obstreperous client. She backed away and looked Elilia over from head to foot, critiquing her work and the way it draped the powerful and frightfully unfashionable body beneath it. She could not, as she feared, make a silk purse from this particular sow's ear, but she did her best out of pride of appointment. _At least she has a fine womanly bosom, so no one should think my lovely gowns are being worn now by men…hopefully._

"I believe the breadths are as they should be now, Your Majesty," the dressmaker informed the Queen gravely, with a curtsey. "I have the proper measurements and will have the gown ready before the Presentation in three days. Shall we speak of trimmings?"

"We shall speak of getting me out of this monstrosity as quickly as possible," Elilia growled.

"Hold - you can't take it off until we've decided how it should be finished," Anora commanded. "Are you certain that particular shade of blue is appropriate to the Lady Cousland's rather…_golden_ skin tone?" A polite way of saying that Elilia had spent too many years baked in the sun and looked more like a farm girl than a noblewoman. The rich cerulean shade popularly known to Fereldens as "Cousland Blue" was a good shade to use when making the statement that she was being restored to her family title, but it had clearly never been intended to be worn by someone with such dark skin. At worst the effect could be said to be garish, and at best it was certainly eye-popping.

"Once the dress is finished, Your Majesty, it will not be so conflicting. All it requires is careful attention to trimmings. Silver is the tradition for the Couslands, I know, but I believe that gold threading and trims will help to offset and balance out the shades. I know that it is High Summer, but I believe a trim of ermine about the cuffs, skirts, and corselet would be quite elegant, and draw attention away from certain…unfortunate…features."

"Such as?" the Queen asked, and Elilia winced, not wanting to know.

"The…_shoulders, _Your Majesty…are rather…_broad."_

"Those broad shoulders have saved Ferelden," the Queen said, clearly more amused than stern. "All of Thedas, in fact."

"Oh, no one respects the Lady Warden more than I, Your Majesty, what she has done for all of us is simply fantastical. But she is…difficult…to clothe."

"Well, do your damnedest," Anora said, in a fair imitation of her father. "It is not Elilia Cousland the _warrior_ who will stand before the Landsmeet to receive her title, but Elilia Cousland the high-born _lady."_

"Can you remind me of why that is again, exactly, Your Majesty?" Elilia said through gritted teeth. The heavy fall of flocked wool was hot and itchy and uncomfortable and she longed for the familiar encumbrances of her armor. She did not miss the days when her mother stuffed her into foolish frippery and forced her to parade in front of all the eligible noble sons - of _bitches, _most of them, though she wasn't always sure whether it was truly any fault of their mothers. She had a horrifying presentiment that Anora was now doing exactly the same thing to her, for the same purpose - to marry her off to some rich house. As if any of Ferelden's noblemen would consider _her _marriageable! She'd run her blade through the heart of the first man bold enough to propose - with _extreme pleasure _if it happened to be that rapist bastard Vaughan Kendalls!

Finally the Queen and her royal dressmaker were finished arguing the fine points of fashion. Elilia neither knew nor cared what they at last settled upon, even though she was the poor fool who would be forced to wear it for however long the Landsmeet Presentation lasted. Such things had a dreadful tendency to spin out tediously. She fairly panted with impatience as the ridiculous gown was carefully removed from her figure by a small army, it seemed, of elven assistants. She had forgotten what it was to wear a boned corselet - and this one hadn't even been laced properly! Bereft of all but her smallclothes, Elilia stood with her feet braced and her hands fisted upon her hips, unabashed, as another team of elven servants scurried in with her armor. The dressmaker eyed her muscled frame with undisguised disapproval, particularly scandalized by the many livid scars she bore. The worst of these, a puckered line extending from her left armpit all the way down her side, curving beneath the breast and terminating just above her navel, had been put there by the Archdemon itself, and had very nearly ended her role in that final assault. Only a furious attack of healing spells from Wynne, Morrigan, and the Circle mages present to assist allowed her to raise her sword and battle on.

Once more properly dressed, Elilia was allowed to escape the Queen's clutches. They'd been in Denerim a week, and much of that week had been spent in exactly the sort of mind-numbing company she dreaded - vacuous nobles congratulating themselves heartily for things they never had a hand in, idiotic remarks about the beneficence of the Maker from brain-washed priests and Chantry hangers-on. Thank all that was good and holy for Loghain, a splash of cold, sensible water amidst the boil of foolishness and drunken revel. Thank the Maker for Seanna, for that matter, since the mage's shyness gave Elilia a perfect excuse, when needed, to bow out of the worst of the carousing and take her back to their rooms for peace and quiet. And then of course there were the Blessings, the Dedications, the Funerals, the Processions - all of which found her standing in full armor and at full attention for hours beyond counting while some buffoon droned away in speech after speech. Even Alistair was guilty of it - one of his addresses lasted a good forty minutes. He'd changed a lot from the young lad fresh from templar training, too afraid to put himself forward even to take the lead over a completely green recruit. At least his heart was still a good one. Anora's speeches were more frequent but also more satisfactory - the Queen liked to get to the point quickly, hammer it home, and then retreat and let her well-chosen words do the work they were intended for. She rarely exceeded ten minutes in any address, and never went beyond fifteen. Elilia applauded her economy of words but couldn't quite forget that all of this fresh hell was at the Queen's behest and plan.

Loghain was asked - nay, _commanded_ - to speak, but his spare speech surpassed even his daughter's. "We won - isn't that enough?" he growled, and stalked away in a state of high dudgeon. Elilia had seen him pocketing sweets from the serving tables all that evening, and knew he had no taste for them. "Waste of jaw energy," he called such things, and eyed with deep suspicion anyone over the age of ten who seemed to enjoy such treats. Anxious to escape lest she be called upon to speak next, Elilia drew Seanna along with her and followed the man through the empty corridors of the palace to the nursery, where they had their own private revel with the young prince and princess, too young to attend such a late-night gathering even though Duncan had been forced to put in an appearance at the start of it. The children were far better company than their elders, though Baby Anora threw a comfit in Elilia's face with deadly aim. The little innocent had quite the temper.

Elilia had teased him about smuggling food to his grandchildren. "Do you recall when we were about three days out of Denerim and we were beset by that pack of Blight-crazed wolves at that place where they'd set all those bloody useless traps for them? If I remember correctly, you asked in quite an irritated manner whether any of the rest of us had committed the sin of carrying table scraps, luring them."

"I…vaguely…remember that," he said cautiously.

"I always meant to call you on that, since only the day before I saw you taking a bit of cheese from your belt pouch and tossing it to my dear old hound Kiveal right in the middle of the roadway. And at several occasions I saw you feeding him scraps of roast boar, long from any meal."

"…Your point?"

She elbowed him hard in the ribs. _"You _were the one carrying table scraps, you great ox!"

He tried hard to scowl, but the expression crumbled rapidly and he actually laughed along with Duncan, who thought it quite a fine joke. Baby Anora did not quite understand what was funny, but not to be outdone she at last emitted a loud _"Haw!"_ That set everyone off in another burst of laughter, which rather fretted the child for a moment before she, too, was laughing quite merrily - so much so, in fact, that she gave herself a case of the hiccoughs and was rescued by the nurse, who whisked her away to bed.

Loghain was different with the children than he was with other people, Elilia saw with some approval. Gentler, even in the tone of his voice. She had not thought him capable of _not_ sounding harsh, that years of growling and barking and bellowing had roughened a throat never designed to be melodious in the first place, but once in awhile when he spoke to his grandchildren - particularly to Duncan, who was much more sensitive than his sister even though he seemed to have a fine burgeoning manliness to him - Elilia caught tones in his voice that were almost soothing. Musical, even. She beamed upon the sight of the great warrior with the happy young boy enthroned upon his knee until she realized with some disgust that her feelings were becoming distinctly broody and maternal. She liked children well enough when they were someone _else's, _but she'd long ago settled herself to never having any of her own.

"…My Lady?"

The quiet inquiry brought her back to the present with a start. She paused and allowed Seanna to catch up with her - in her eagerness to leave the stuffy dressmaker's stuffy parlor she'd completely forgotten her new friend, who'd waited patiently and without comment upon a settee by the door the whole time she was fussed and fitted. "Sorry, Seanna - my mind was wandering. Am I walking too fast for you?"

"No, my Lady, but I feared you would walk straight through the wall of the tavern, you seemed so intent upon your trajectory," the mage said, with the slightest hint of a laugh buried in her deference. Surprised, Elilia looked ahead of herself and saw that she was indeed but a few preoccupied strides from slamming straight into the side of the Gnawed Noble. Sheepishly she detoured to the front of the building.

"You wanted a chance to browse The Wonders of Thedas, didn't you?" she said. "It's just around the corner here. And I asked you to _please_ stop calling me 'My Lady.'"

"Yes, my Lady," Seanna said, and now there was far more than just a _hint _of laughter in her voice. Elilia smiled. The girl was loosening up, which was good. Like most of the close companions that drew to the stalwart warrior woman's company over the years, the mage's story was not an happy one. Hopefully her life would be a bit more enjoyable now, even if more dangerous. Elilia held the shop's door open for her and followed her inside.

"Oh my…all these books…are for _sale?" _the mage said wonderingly. She'd grown up surrounded by books, of course, but none she could call her own. The small bag of sovereigns Elilia had paid her upon their return to the city was the first coin she'd ever even seen. The only things she'd ever owned were those things issued her by the Circle - basic robes, plain wooden staff, a hood, and a ring inscribed with the mark of the Circle. She was now to embark upon the thrilling adventure of her first purchase, and Elilia went along to ensure that her money was not turned down simply because she was an elf. Many merchants wouldn't take anything higher than silver from "knife-ears," assuming the only way they could acquire gold was through theft.

"They are indeed, Seanna. Lots of other things for sale here, too - models of exotic creatures from faraway lands, clothing bearing powerful enchantments, runes, jewelry. I even bought a map of ancient Tevinter here once, a present for Loghain. Wouldn't have guessed he'd care about maps of places he's never been and wouldn't go if he were paid coin of the realm to do so, but frankly I think he likes maps the way most people like paintings. Cartography's just another art form, to him."

Seanna cast an impish eye at her. "You're very fond of Lord Loghain," she observed slyly.

"He's no lord, Seanna, not anymore - although it wouldn't surprise me at all if Anora manages to talk Alistair around to some sort of title for him eventually, even if its one of those faintly condescending titles that are really just demeaning jobs fobbed off on younger sons presented by their noble parents as courtiers. And I like him, yes - we've been through a lot of shit together. _Manufactured_ quite a bit of it for each other."

"My understanding is that he tried many times to kill you."

Elilia laughed and thumbed through the pages of a book on Nevarran dragon hunters, looking for pictures. "Sometimes it seems that all of my best friends have tried at some point to kill me. Loghain isn't the only one."

Seanna ducked her head and hid her smile behind a copy of a book with the provocative and puzzling title of _Hard in Hightown: Siege Harder. _"He is very handsome, for an older man."

Elilia's burst of laughter at that was loud and piercing enough even to make the Tranquil storekeeper turn disapproving eyes upon her, but she paid him no mind. "If you think ogres are handsome, I suppose."

"I believe that _you_ do," Seanna said, forest-green eyes shining with merriment.

"Seanna, what is that book you're looking at? I believe it may be warping your poor innocent mind." She snatched away the volume and scanned a few pages. It appeared to be a seamy romance about a corrupt guardsman who was systematically working his way through every unattached - or otherwise - woman in Kirkwall while at the same time engaging in ferocious pitched melee with scores of thugs and cutthroats. Pirates, even, and Tevinter slavers. Utter trash. Seanna had to jostle her rather roughly before she could tear herself away from it.

"You shouldn't read things like this, Seanna, they're not good for you," Elilia said. She made to put the book back on the shelf but slipped it beneath her copy of _Nevarran Dragon Hunters _instead. She didn't care for the passages about sex a bit, of course, but she'd been pulled away from a battle to protect a poor young mage girl from a group of power-mad templars and she had to know whether Donnan Brennakovic managed to save her or not. It was only fifteen silvers, after all. "If you must know, Loghain has certain qualities I do find rather attractive in a man. His _appearance_ isn't one of them, nor his personality."

Seanna leaned in close and whispered. "You've bedded him, haven't you? The rumor flew all about the camp, but I didn't know to believe it until I saw the two of you together."

"_Seanna!" _Elilia said, shocked, but then she burst into a fit of the giggles - girlish and ridiculous, but she couldn't help it. "We shared an…_intimate moment, _since you brought it up. For several hours, in fact. He may be old, but the man's got staying power."

Seanna giggled. "I get to read that after you're done with it," she said, and tapped the cover of _Nevarran Dragon Hunters _with one long, tapered fingernail. Elilia knew she had no interest at all in the techniques involved in killing dragons. She grinned at the little mage.

"Deal."

They finished their shopping, chatting and giggling together like schoolgirls. Elilia bought a small scale model of the Archdemon Urthemiel - "In memory of an old fiend" - in addition to her books. Seanna bought several books, a pair of good quality leather-soled boots with soft oilskin sides to replace the flimsy and rather ancient ones that wore out on the long trek back from the battle, and a beautiful silverite chain from which depended a large cabochon of deep blue lapis inlaid with a half moon of mother-of-pearl, rounded and polished to perfection until it seemed almost a natural part of the larger stone. She immediately presented this rather pricey treasure to Elilia, who attempted to refuse.

"Please, take it. I've never been able to give someone a gift before," Seanna said. The imploring look in her eyes was something Elilia couldn't defend herself against.

"All right. Thank you, Seanna, it's absolutely lovely." She put it on at once. It felt strange and heavy and very out of place, but there was something soothing in the cool stone when she touched it with bare fingers, and without question it was the most beautiful piece of jewelry she had owned since becoming a Warden. She always liked to ferret out the things that made her companions' hearts skip and give them gifts accordingly, and now she had extra incentive to watch for that special gleam in Seanna's eye.

"Shall we go back to the palace now?" Seanna asked. "I believe we may just have time to make ourselves presentable for dinner."

Elilia made a face. "I do so hate dining at the palace. When I became a Grey Warden I put all such nonsense as soup spoons and salad forks and elbows-off-the-table out of my head completely, and I don't care to be forced to remember it now!"

"You don't _have_ to stand on proper dining etiquette, you know," Seanna said, with an ill-stifled laugh. "Loghain certainly doesn't. He uses the same fork for every course and scoops up peas and beans with his knife."

"I'm just surprised he doesn't swallow the utensils," Elilia said cheerily. "That man's appetite is enormous. The way he packs it in, you'd think he was still a Warden."

"At least if he is not an overly _formal _diner, he is not a piggish one," Seanna said fairly. "Some of the so-called 'high-born' that dine with the King and Queen make the most infernal noises as they eat, and they let the gravy dribble down their chins, no matter how delicately they quirk out their pinkies when gulping down ale and wine."

"Ah, that's right. They sat you next to poor old Arl Wulffe last night, didn't they? He's a relative of mine - well, pretty much all the nobles are, to some degree - and he's probably the only man in Thedas gruffer and more ill-mannered than Loghain. But he's a good soul, he is. I'm glad he finally remarried - lost both his sons to the Blight, working hard to evacuate his people before they could be overwhelmed by the Darkspawn. Not many nobles put so much on the line for the poor folks they were meant to protect, or lost so much. That new wife of his seems a decent sort, and their little girl is a darling."

"What do you think the Queen has planned for you at the Landsmeet?" Seanna asked, after a period of companionable silence. Elilia sighed heavily.

"Terrors and torment, no doubt. Loghain is a cunning man but generally you can count on him to attack you head-on as long as he's the one in the vanguard. His daughter is much more subtle. It's difficult to defend against a foe that kills you with generosity and heaped honors."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that, unattractive old battleaxe though I may be I am still sister of a Teyrn. It would serve her well to auction me off to some unmarried nobleman, particularly an unbiddable one that doesn't do things _quite_ Her Majesty's way. As the 'Hero of Ferelden' she would expect me to quickly usurp my husband's power and then she would have a powerful ally in the Landsmeet where once she had a foe. Little as I care to admit it, I'm often of Anora's mind about what should be done in this country, if not always in perfect agreement as to _how. _It's why I felt it was necessary to keep her in power. She's much better at the day-to-day business of ruling than Alistair could ever have been without her to teach him, and she's not afraid of the _ruthless_ part of being a monarch, either. Alistair on his own, I fear, would quickly have become the puppet of Arl Eamon. Anora is too much her own woman to ever be manipulated like that."

"Why do you say such things about yourself?" Seanna said reproachfully. Elilia nodded to the palace guardsman as they passed by into the massive and rather dour structure.

"Say what things about myself?"

"That you are an 'unattractive old battleaxe.' You seem a beautiful and kind-hearted woman to me, and not at all old."

"I'm thirty-one."

"And I'm thirty-_four!" _Seanna flashed back.

"Well, I know, but thirty-four doesn't look as bad on an elven woman as thirty-one looks on a human woman. And believe me, on the marriage market a thirty-one year old woman is indeed very, very old. A lot of Ferelden noblewomen are married off at sixteen. It wasn't that long ago that the proper age was considered to be _fourteen._ I was that young when my mother started scouting for suitable husbands for me, not that I think she meant to give me away so soon. At one point the best prospects looked to be Vaughan Kendalls and Thomas Howe - both absolutely loathsome creatures, one a philanderer even at a very young age - with a taste for _unwilling women, _no less - and the other a drunkard from the age of fifteen. I don't think my mother believed the rumors about them, or she never would have considered them suitable, I'm sure. One Satinalia we spent in Denerim old Arl Urien was pressing his son's courtship suit so hard that I was terrified I would be married by First Day so I ran off to the docks and got this tattoo. Absolute scandal, it was, and my parents were horrified - but it put paid to the Kendalls trying to win my hand for their odious son. I'm glad to see he still hasn't married, because I would fear for any poor soul saddled with him for a husband, but it worries me, too, since he's quite an obstacle for the Royal Agenda at the Landsmeet, not that he has any brains with which to refute them. Anora would certainly like to have him quietly and effectively squashed, and what better way to do that than with a strong-willed wife to whom people would prefer to listen? I should be forced to murder him if we were wed, but on the upside Denerim would undoubtedly be the better for it, even if they hanged me."

"Ew, don't say such things," Seanna said, with a little shudder. "What is his own agenda?"

Elilia snorted. "To live as decadent a lifestyle as one can live in poor, simple Ferelden. I thought for a time my cousin Arl Bryland would marry his daughter Habren to Vaughan - cut from the same cloth, they were - but apparently he finally did his duty by her as her father and sent her off to the Chantry to make penance for her wicked lifestyle. Last I heard she'd actually taken Orders. 'Mother Habren.' A terrifying thought, to be sure. In any event, I should perhaps have warned you about Vaughan before now. He has a taste for elves, I fear to say, and frequents the Alienage as if it were his own personal whorehouse - not that he pays the poor girls anything, or allows them the choice. I'd kill him right now, if I could get away with it. Any road, he doesn't want to lose his toys so he blocks any and all proposals the Crown makes to improve conditions there. Anora had to fight him tooth and claw for six years before she finally managed to slip a proposal for improved drainage by him. It wasn't much of a win, but at least the elves aren't hip-deep in rainwater half the year anymore. And it's my fault, too - old Arl Howe was keeping him locked up in his own dungeons and I let the bastard go so he'd speak out for me at the Landsmeet. Still not sure why I didn't just gut him right there, but I needed the support. I think. Might still have gotten the majority vote without him."

She walked the long corridors to their room in glum silence for a time, her big head hanging, until they reached their door. "No use moaning about past mistakes, I suppose," she sighed at last. "I wish I could go in there and take hammer and nails to all the shoddy carpentry and clean the place up so its properly livable, but all their homes are owned by humans and if they were in any better condition they'd evict the elves and move in people who can pay higher rent. The Crown has been trying to buy the properties for years but Vaughan won't let the owners sell out. He's got stones, blocking the King like _that_. Hmm…I wonder if an anonymous private party could start making quiet purchases and buy the whole place out from under Kendalls before he knew what was happening?" she mused.

"It would be a bold move," Seanna said, "but a hopelessly expensive one."

Elilia grinned at her. "Being a Grey Warden has been astonishingly lucrative for me, dear. When I'm officially a Lady again, my brother intends to give me my proper share of the family inheritance, as well. In three days time I could potentially buy out a _dozen _Alienages, if the property owners will only sell to me. I've a mind to do it, too."


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T, but briefly M, M, M, and more M, though 'tis second-hand M, as it were. Blame Varric.

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen: Dancing Shadows**

_First Warden:_

_Ser;_

_I write to you in deepest regrets, tendering my reluctant resignation from the ranks of Grey Wardens. This was not a decision I was allowed to make for myself: circumstances beyond my control have found me quite completely devoid of all Taint, and I am no longer fit to perform my proper duties by the Order. I recognize that my abrupt departure from your ranks leaves the Order without an acting Warden-Commander of Ferelden, and I would like to take this opportunity to recommend my faithful Second, Senior Warden Nathaniel Howe. He I will leave in direct charge of the Wardens at Amaranthine until official assignments may be handed down. I would further recommend that if you were to choose instead to install a Warden-Commander from outside of Ferelden, it would be politically apposite __not__ to choose a Brother or Sister from the ranks of Orlais. Wardens are Wardens, we all understand, but Ferelden is not Orlais, and has good reason to mistrust those from that land at this time._

_Personal Regards,_

_Elilia Merwynnan Cousland, formerly Warden-Commander of Ferelden_

Elilia finished off this missive with a grand flourish, blotted it, folded the parchment, and sealed it with wax dyed bluish-gray. She fixed that with the gryphon seal of the Grey Wardens. Even if the First Warden was stupid enough to send his own man to take the position of Warden-Commander, it would take months for the message to reach him far away in the Anderfels. Nathaniel was the kind of man who could make good advantage of such time. She addressed another parchment to him, writing to explain the situation with more detail and considerably less brittleness to the courtesy. She also apologized, to him and the other recruits she'd gathered in her years as Commander of the Grey.

_When you Joined, I asked of you to stand with me in the duty that cannot be forsworn. It would be right of you to feel I have betrayed my Oath, and all of you as well, for I cannot say with honesty that I did not wish to be relieved of the burdens attendant upon being a Grey Warden. I consider you my Brothers and Sisters still, and though I may now be the family exile still do I consider you the finest men and women I have ever had the honor to serve with, and I am fiercely proud of my Ferelden Wardens. Give the Darkspawn my fondest regards, Friend Oghren, and the next time you raise your glass perhaps you could raise it once in memory of me. Nathaniel, scowl and curse me as you will, but know that I have been honored to serve by your side. There is no one else I trust to navigate the treacherous waters of Command and Politics combined. To each and all of you, serve well and stand true. You are __all that is best in the Wardens__, and never forget it._

That last line was all the warning she felt it prudent to send, and Nathaniel was a canny fellow. He would know what she meant by it, and no more trusted the external hierarchy of Wardens than she did. It would be well.

Now if only _she _would be. She turned in her chair to look at the gown spread across the coverlet, awaiting her. If her mother could have seen it, she would have fairly swooned over it. Leliana the Bard would have delighted in the silken skirts and the elegant trimmings, the daring cuts to allow advantageous view of her few "womanly qualities." Even Morrigan might have unbent from her typical cool indifference to say that it was "adequate for the purpose." Elilia thought it a fright. She had been invited once to the wedding of a notably fashionable Lord and Lady Nameless who had done up the festivities in the finest Orlesian style, and the centerpiece of it all was a massive five-tiered cake with sugared crenellations and tower defenses, rock candy rose blooms, and colored icing of a rich emerald green. That cake had not looked either one whit lovely _or_ edible to Elilia, and this dress reminded her of it very much. It was not green but blue - _Cousland Blue, _despite the threat of garish clash between gown and skin - and though it was done up in something of the way the dressmaker had suggested it bore the stamp of personality strongly enough to identify it as an original creation of one Anora Mac Tir. Granted, Her Majesty's taste was supposed to be impeccable, so Elilia guessed that everyone else at the Presentation would like it well enough, particularly the ones who enjoyed the peephole in the corselet that allowed full view of the inner curve of her breasts. She'd never seen _Anora_ wear anything so revealing.

Anora had seen her in her smallclothes, so presumably she was aware of the fact that below the neck Elilia Cousland was _not_ burnt to a golden tan by the sun, but was in fact as pasty white as any good High-Born Ferelden woman. Perhaps she wanted the unmarried men of the Landsmeet to see that, too, and imagine that the newly-reborn noblewoman's body was as soft and pleasing and unmarred as any other slag's. If they were by that tricked into marrying her they would be in for an unpleasant surprise.

Seanna came in from the adjoining room, where she'd been deeply engrossed in the tawdry romance Elilia had bought at the Circle shop. She was carrying the book with her.

"Listen to this: 'Caught within her web, Freidrich was helpless to resist the dusky pirate goddess, the ideal of woman, the idol of sex. Bared before him in all her glory he allowed her to push him unresisting onto the bed, to strip him of his noble garments. Wordlessly he reached out to her, wanting only to worship at the heaving altar of her bosom, but she laid him roughly by. He allowed her her will, for it was far stronger than his own, and above him she bucked, plunged, reared, rode his pommel with wild abandon until at last he spent himself within her. Then, tenderly, she lifted his head and allowed him his reward. He suckled like a babe until a sudden pain wracked his body, and then another and another. Still he licked and nibbled and sucked, unwilling to relinquish her mountainous peaks even in the throes of what he now knew to be his death. At last he was stilled, face frozen yet in a rictus of pleasure and pain. Æsarella rose, closed his eyes, and smoothed back his hair, then went to the wash basin in the corner of the room and cleansed her nipples of the remaining poison. Task complete, she dressed and slipped silently into the night, to meet her ship and sail away forever from this dark and terrible place. No one could ever say she was unkind.'"

Elilia laughed until her eyes welled with tears. "What utter rubbish!" she cried. "Maker's breath, who comes up with this rot_? 'Poisoned nipples?' _Apart from the very real danger of the _poisoner_ becoming the _poisoned, _I suppose any man would be quite willing and happy to die _that_ way."

Seanna giggled, musical notes tinkling away in the air. "I like the reference to 'mountainous peaks.' Do you think they were like unto the Frostbacks, or more akin to the Anderfels?"

"Well they were poisoned, so I suppose that makes them Anders Tits," Elilia said, and both women burst out laughing. "For a moment there I couldn't tell whether it was meant to be a sex scene or the story of a woman breaking an ill-trained saddle horse."

Seanna opened her mouth to make some other commentary on the passage when she was forestalled by a knock at the outer door. She flung the book onto the settee, dropped down on top of it, grabbed up her needlework and began sewing as though the world were in desperate need of embroidered handkerchiefs. A pretty rose blush colored her porcelain cheeks.

Elilia composed herself with difficulty. "Come in."

The door opened and a dainty dark-haired elven woman curtseyed her way inside. Elilia recognized her at once. _Erlina, _Anora's personal handmaiden and, Elilia was quite certain, personal spy - or worse, if worse was called for. That much didn't bother her, for it was only sensible that the queen employ agents who could walk in the shadows. The fact that the woman was even more certainly an unabashed Orlesian bard _did_, however, and her eyes narrowed. Anora had brains, undoubtedly, but her attachment to this woman smacked somewhat of a finger wave in the face of her father _- "I-do-what-I-want-the-way-I-want" _- and quite a risky one at that. Who knew how much information had passed from Ferelden to Orlais through this unassuming little wench?

"Yes?" she said in a voice calculated to freeze.

Erlina curtseyed again, the soul of deference. "My Lady the Queen sent me to help Your Grace dress for her Presentation."

"_I _can help Elilia dress," Seanna spoke up defensively. Erlina curtseyed again.

"If it please Your Grace, Her Majesty wishes me to make available to you my skills with ladies' tresses and cosmetics."

Elilia sighed. She needed help, that was certain - Seanna wore her red hair in a becomingly boyish fashion, one that would not suit Elilia's oversized noggin at all. Seanna had no idea how to style up long hair, and Elilia herself could manage nothing more complicated for herself than a simple plait. About cosmetics, beyond the heavy, dramatic colors she used to make herself more warlike, Elilia knew nothing and Seanna had never even encountered so much as a pot of lip balm in the Circle tower. "Very well. Thank you, Erlina."

Seanna gave the bard a mistrustful glare but pretended to return to her needlework.

Erlina stepped more fully into the room and stood aside to allow a fleet of servants to bring in trays of Things Unknown. Elilia's heart sank in cold dismay at the array of pots, powders, and things she couldn't even begin to guess at - any one of which could be a far more effective means of poisoning someone than a nipple - curling tongs and papers, hair ribbons, hair pins, and even a box of jewelry, possibly the Queen's own. They arranged these trays upon the sideboard table and ran back out again when Erlina ordered them to fetch hot water for "Her Grace's bath."

"That isn't the correct form of address," Elilia said blandly.

"Pardon, Your Grace?"

"'Your Grace.' I'm nobody's Grace. That title is reserved for Teyrns and Teyrnas, Erlina, not the younger sisters of Teyrns." It was true, though it had not escaped her attention that Arl Eamon of Redcliffe had been called by that honorific, at least during the upheaval of the Blight. She had found it faintly enraging that it should be so, and it did occur to her to wonder if perhaps the man hadn't been lining his nest for an appointment she was most gratified he'd never gotten. She'd never told Loghain about the papers she'd found when they'd made the long, dismal trek back to Ostagar, papers that showed the Arl in collusion with Orlesian sympathizers who wanted Cailan to dispose of Anora in favor of a most horrifying marriage to Empress Celene of Orlais, a plan the foolish young King had seemed to be in favor of. It seemed to Elilia unlikely in the extreme that the Queen could be set aside without enraging her father, so they had probably been planning some form of "disposal" for Loghain as well, of perhaps a more permanent nature - and she also doubted very much that anyone involved other than perhaps the Idiot King himself thought that Anora could simply be divorced. Eamon might have expected to swap out his Arling for a Teyrnir had his plans not been thwarted. Even after so many years she still kept those documents with her, ready and willing to use them the moment the pompous fool stepped out of line again.

Erlina's mouth drew up in a strange smile, a smile that mocked with secret knowledge. "My Lady the Queen instructed me that it was the proper form of address in this case, Your Grace, and I cannot go against My Lady's wishes."

The servants came back then, lugging pails of steaming water which they carried into the bath chamber to fill the carved-stone basin deep enough for full immersion. Erlina clapped her hands sharply and they scurried away, task complete.

"Undress, Your Grace, and have your bath. My Lady the Queen wishes you to look your absolute finest when you are presented to the nobles and take your rightful place as a Cousland heir. While you do this I will choose the proper style and colors for your hair and makeup." She shoved a bar of lavender-scented soap and a jar of something that smelled like apple blossoms into Elilia's hands - after an embarrassingly long moment, she realized it was an expensive lady's hair wash. For years she had simply made do with soap, despite how scummy it left her hair. Meekly, she sidled into the bath chamber and divested herself of the simple, comfortable jerkin and trousers she wore.

Her hot soak would have been lovely had she the leisure to enjoy it. As it was she scrubbed her skin clean with the flowery soap and then gave her hair a good lathering from the jar of hair wash. After she rinsed it out she hesitated, decided that if one was a help then two must be better, and washed her hair all over again. Then she climbed up out of the deep tub, assisted by Seanna, and gratefully allowed her to drape a velvet dressing gown over her bare shoulders. She tucked herself into it and belted it tightly. Erlina gestured her to take a seat on a low stool and began working the tangles from her hair with a fine comb.

* * *

More bloody pomp and circumstance. It was all well and good that Elilia should have her proper birthright again, it was less than her due, but after a week of foolishness it was past time to stop with the parties and make with the planning. They'd given the Orlesians something to think about, hopefully, but they weren't going to quit just because they lost a legion. They had more.

He surveyed his appearance in the floor-length looking glass. Bloody awful, but Maker knows it could be worse. The black doublet was as unadorned as it was possible to get a tailor to make it and if the black leather trousers were a bit…fey…then at least they were not the ridiculous poofy striped satin things rich merchants and noblemen wore. Anora had insisted he dress formally rather than wear armor and presented to his eyes a hideous spectacle of the worst fashion had to offer men these days, and he argued her down to this. The smile of triumph that lit her face and eyes once they'd reached an accord could mean only that she'd gotten exactly what she'd wanted from him. Oh well, he didn't mind so much being manipulated as long as his daughter was the puppet master. It was, as he'd told Elilia long ago, "the peculiar joy of parents to be terrorized by their children."

At one of the many ceremonies he'd been presented with a silver sash and a ceremonial sword, and Anora made him wear both now. He adjusted the fabric so that it lay smooth across his chest and belted on the mostly useless but nicely ornamental side arm. He didn't much care to wear a sword at his belt, given the choice, but he could always use the scabbard to trip somebody up, as long as it wasn't himself. Thus outfitted, he made for the Landsmeet chambers after a quick peek in at the children, who regarded this strange incarnation of their grandfather with a mixture of alarm and skepticism.

He took his position before the dais a bit to the left of the Queen's throne and stood at stern attention, one arm behind his back and the other hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. Most of the nobility was already packed into the galleries, talking loudly. He saw Cauthrien up there, speaking seriously to Fergus Cousland. She'd come in for the Landsmeet, leaving her soldiers at the border under the command of a trusted man, but she hadn't come back empty handed - a caravan of supply wagons had come along with her, heaped high with armor and weapons taken from the Orlesian dead, and the outfit was followed by a number of fine horses that had been recovered, as well. It was a nice boon for the Ferelden army, and Cauthrien had told him that the mages who'd slipped away before the army left had returned, seeking employment and safety within their ranks. Evidently they had wanted to keep out of the Revered Mother's gaze, which was only sensible of them. It made him glad to know their forces could still count on magic to assist them.

"They really sped things up for us with burning the dead," Cauthrien told him. "I've got them scrying for scouts and troops on the other side of the Frostbacks, best they can. I've sent the ashes along to Val Royeaux with some dwarven merchants who seemed trustworthy enough to keep the promise they made in exchange for the sovereigns I paid them. They also seemed to understand the overall message we wanted to send, and liked the idea of being in on showing the Empress what all her cozening has reaped for her. They weren't even afraid to suffer for bearing bad news. I don't think they were born surfacers, and the way their eyes glittered when they spoke of 'getting into a little scrap' led me to believe they may once have been Warrior Caste."

The great doors opened, horns sounded, and a puffed-up herald announced "Their Royal Majesties King Alistair and Queen Anora." Alistair wore the golden plate of Kingship and the sight made Loghain growl low in his throat - _why does _he _get to be comfortable? _- and Anora wore a regal gown of gold brocade. Arm in arm they swept toward the front of the room and Loghain took a knee as was proper. He marveled at the ease of movement in joints that had grown quite stiff and complaining in recent years, the pain still in abeyance. Those ashes were a wonder indeed.

Her Grace the Grand Cleric was announced after the King and Queen took their places, as the Chantry needed to be represented at such things. Loghain watched her curiously, wondering if she'd received orders from the Divine yet, wondering what she would do about them when she did. The bloody Chantry had no right whatsoever to interfere in matters of Ferelden sovereignty but that was something the Old Bag in Val Royeaux - and many Old Bags gone before - didn't seem to grasp. Ferelden should make like Tevinter and create its _own_ bloody Chantry, separate from the Old Bag. For that matter, Ferelden should have its own independent Grey Wardens, too, because no tin-plated hypocrite a thousand miles away ought to have any power over anything necessary for Ferelden's protection, and the foreign Wardens proved they didn't give a damn during the Blight. There'd been time for scores of Wardens to come in from the Free Marches but all they got was one Orlesian who snuck in to spy.

Ah, in a perfect world. If they had the strength of arms and magic that Tevinter had, they could do whatever they bloody well wanted to.

The Grand Cleric droned on at some length about the momentous occasion of restoring a member of a fine, ancient lineage. Loghain let his mind wander freely and struggled mightily against the urge to yawn. Finally Elilia was called to the Landsmeet Chamber to present herself before the lords and ladies of Ferelden. The doors opened to admit her.

Loghain stared, stunned. The woman who walked with uncertain steps into the great chamber could not be Elilia Cousland. Puffed and powdered and painted, her hair curled and pinned so that it framed her face and fell in ringlets to her shoulders, she looked uncomfortable, unsure, and even a little bit frightened. The gown she wore was a blatant advertisement, from the way it exposed her fine breast to the way the tight corselet cinched in her figure and the velvet overskirt draped her hips, her womanliness was deliberately emphasized, her powerful physique altered as much as possible to make her appear demure and feminine. She looked beautiful, yes, but he thought she looked more beautiful still when she was clad in dragonbone mail and charging pell-mell at her foes.

She drew near, and he could hear her panting. At first he thought it was fright but then he realized by the way only her bosoms seemed able to move, and that _upward _instead of out, that the damned boning was preventing her from breathing properly. He hoped they'd wrap the ceremony quickly so she could get her girl to untie her and let her take a few good breaths before the ball began. She was already looking a little bit purple underneath the paint and powder.

But the Grand Cleric seemed to be in a verbose mood. She droned away about honor and dignity and _noblesse oblige _- odd that such a concept would be in Orlesian words, given that they seemed not to know the first thing about it - and Elilia suffered in proper silence. He saw it the moment her eyes rolled and moved to grab her before she could strike the hard stone floor.

"Maker's Breath - _Eli!" _Alistair cried out. From the corner of his eye Loghain saw Fergus Cousland vaulting out of the gallery box to run to his sister's side. Loghain did the only thing that could help the poor woman and unceremoniously ripped the lacings right out of the back of her ridiculous gown. With her lungs no longer constricted by the high demands of fashion she breathed easily, and in a moment opened her eyes.

Coming to with her corselet unbound, in the arms of Loghain and with the anxious faces of brother and King peering down at her, Elilia was more than justified in the deep scarlet blush that shone through her heavy cosmetics. "I'm fine - I'm sorry, it was just so hard to breathe."

They helped her to her feet, and all the men were careful not to notice the way the cut-away front of the bodice sagged and threatened to allow a bosom to escape. The dress would need to be repaired but the ceremony wasn't over. There was a brief moment of impasse before Loghain cursed under his breath and stripped off his doublet. The Presentation continued with the Lady receiving her just honors wearing an oversized jacket over her fine gown and with the Queen's father in his appointed position, bare-chested and glowering with more ferocity than usual. The Grand Cleric evidently had the wind knocked out of her sails and wrapped things up quickly. It was a fiasco, but it was sure to give the nobility something to talk about for a good long while. As soon as it was over Seanna appeared from the shadows and whisked Elilia away for the needed repairs, and the rest of the assembled went to the Grand Hall for the ball. Loghain wouldn't blame Elilia if she didn't come out of her rooms the rest of the night.

A servant restored his doublet to him and he put it on, ignoring the nudges, winks, and whispers of the idiots who saw and repeated to each other the juicy gossip that had grown in the days since the world found out he and Elilia had slept together. Once. They hadn't even _discussed_ that night again since that moment behind the supply wagons, he'd tried to bring it up but Elilia was dodging. Soon she'd be married off to some fat fool of a nobleman and there'd be no chance of a repeat performance, which was a pity. He had allowed himself to hope…well, never mind _what_ he'd allowed himself to hope. It was a vainglorious thought indeed, the woman was less than half his age.

Anora had taken the debacle with customary aplomb, and acted now as though nothing could have gone more perfectly. As the guests grazed off the great tables set out with dainty treats and began what would undoubtedly be a night of heavy drinking she mingled and chatted brightly, briskly, and wittily with everyone, the perfect hostess. The minstrels were tuning up in their gallery. Elilia arrived, looking embarrassed but undaunted, gown repaired and her waist no longer so tightly laced into an unnatural shape. Arl Wulffe elbowed Loghain in the ribs.

"There she is. Looks a sight better not trussed up like a Harvestmere turkey, don't she? You're a lucky bastard, Loghain, and I hope you know it."

The minstrels gave the cue for dancers to partner. Anora swept up to him and hissed _"Dance with her" _at him in a harsh undertone.

"Anora, I don't dance."

"You know how. Elilia is taller than every other man here and would look ridiculous towering over her partner when all eyes will be upon her for the first dance. _Dance with her."_

Loghain sighed and obediently went to offer the Lady of the Hour his arm.

The steps were slow and simple, and the formations not much different to some of the more ridiculous precision drills done for parades. There was grave dignity in the way man and woman circled each other, hands touching, curtsey and bow and back again, but Loghain wasn't feeling any of it. He disliked this sort of foolishness, and essentially the whole thing was ritualized courtship. Given what notions the assembled had in their heads about him and Elilia, this was the last thing they needed to see.

She smiled at him as they went through the motions. "Thank you for the loan of your doublet, Good Ser."

"Pray don't mention it, Milady," he said.

"I am most aggrieved that you were forced to finish out the Presentation thus unclad. I do hope it did not cause you too much degradation. If it is any comfort your chest is so well-furred that it very much appeared as though you were wearing a blouse."

"Thank you, Milady. In future I shall take care to always wear a blouse 'neath my doublet, in case of swooning damsels. Seriously, are you all right? I didn't know bloody corsets were so damned dangerous."

"Men never fully appreciate the torment women endure for their sake. I'm fine, really, thank you for your concern. If I were accustomed to cinching the way most women are I wouldn't have fainted."

"On the other hand, if you were most women you'd be dead a hundred times over by this point in your life. Chin up - "

" - and plod on. Yes, I shall."

They danced in silence for awhile, until Loghain said, "You do look lovely, even though the dress is evidently a weapon of self-destruction."

She colored prettily. "Thank you," she mumbled.

The dance ended, and new partners were chosen. Loghain disappeared into the shadows at the back of the hall to watch the dancers. Elilia danced with her brother and then her cousin Leonas Bryland, and then the music changed into a sprightly tempo and old Wulffe claimed her hand and lead her on a merry romp across the floor with a complete lack of dignity for one so aged. But Elilia seemed quite happy as she capered, so that was something.

Seanna sidled up to him. She had not yet completely gotten over her shyness around him. "You looked very well together," she said. "Her steps match better to yours than to any of the other men she's danced with."

"If she keeps dancing with her older relatives that's sure to remain the case," Loghain said. "How have you found the festivities, young lady, and life at the palace?"

"It is all very grand, Ser, and something I could never grow accustomed to, I think. Though I have enjoyed the experience very much, I shall be glad when we move on from this place."

Loghain sighed. "As will I, my dear. As will I."


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **Kind of a short chapter, I know, really just an interlude, but I love mabaris and couldn't resist giving them their own billing. They're going to be real players as this story continues to unfold and won't be the last in the group. BTW, just in case your mind's eye is picturing something unnatural, Mustard the Mabari and her yellow siblings are not mustard-yellow as in French's "this-product-made-with-melted-crayons" yellow. Food processed to the point of looking like nothing that has ever lived is a modern development that I'm sure Ferelden doesn't have - or want.

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: A Dog of the House of Cousland**

Prince Duncan was now the proud master of a fine specimen of mabari pup, one of the stable master's litter. Mustard, he'd named her. Her coat was yellow. They were inseparable, as was only right, and it gave Loghain some small comfort in troubled times to know the boy would have a stout hound to watch over him. Elilia first met the pup on a visit to the nursery accompanied by Loghain and Seanna, and she expressed due appreciation for the creature, to its young master's delight.

"You are a lucky young man, to have so fine a hound," she said to the prince, while rubbing Mustard's oversized ears. "My Kiveal was my finest and most faithful companion for many years."

"What happened to him, Lady Cousland?" Duncan asked, with interest.

"He lived to a ripe old doggy age, at least for a mabari that had tasted Darkspawn blood. He passed away some time ago, however."

The boy's arms tightened around Mustard's neck protectively. "You must miss him."

"I do. I think of him often."

The boy pondered deeply for a time, while scratching the itchy places he already knew Mustard liked best to be scratched. "The stable master's bitch had a very large litter," he said at last. "Several of the pups haven't imprinted on anyone yet. Perhaps one of them would choose _you."_

She smiled sadly. "It is a nice thought. I miss very much having a good hound at my side, though I could never replace my dear old Kiveal."

"He can't be replaced," Seanna pointed out, "but he can be _succeeded."_

"Seanna's right," Loghain, though he felt something of a hypocrite even as he said it. He'd never been able to contemplate another mabari in all the many years since Adalla died, though he'd certainly enjoyed being part of Kiveal's pack while it lasted. "You should have a look at them. Seems to me someone like you would have a better-than-average chance of being chosen."

"I would love to see the mother," Seanna said. "I'd never seen a mabari until I was with the army, and I was too afraid to get near. They're so big, they looked like they could swallow me entire. I should like to meet a full-grown hound up close, as long as I'm not alone."

"Well, I suppose we could take a peek, if you really want to see," Elilia said, trying and failing to hide her excitement at the thought of possibly having another mabari companion. "We can go down to the stables after tea."

Interested to see what would happen, Loghain went with them. He stayed well back, however, to avoid the possibility that one of the pups might accidentally imprint to him. There were four fine pups remaining from the very large litter of seven, two of them yellow like Mustard. The other two were quite unusual creatures, however. One, a male, was pure white with brilliantly blue eyes. The other, female, was black as midnight in the Deep Roads with a white blaze upon her snout and another upon her chest. All the pups clambered over each other in excitement to greet their distinguished visitor and sniff her hands and lick her face. Seanna made a valiant effort to approach the mother of the pups but an incurious glance in her direction from the great hound sent her slinking back to stand behind Loghain.

Eventually the yellow pups returned to their own amusements and the black female wandered off. The white male, however, clearly thought Elilia quite a satisfactory individual. He had chosen her. Loghain smiled despite himself. The black female was the biggest and most impressive of the pups but the white one had Elilia written all over him from the start and looked like he would grow to be quite the hound. White mabari were very rare. Elilia looked over at him, grinning, face covered in dog slobber and radiantly happy. Her gaze caught on something and she laughed. "Don't look now, but I think you've got an admirer."

He felt something heavy press against his leg. He looked down and saw the black female looking up at him, leaning hard against his shin, tongue lolling and stumpy tail wagging vigorously. "Go on, get back to your mother, now, you," he said.

The pup whined, urged forward slightly, then subsided, sat down on her haunches, and looked at him with dark amber eyes that implored.

"Does that mean she's imprinted?" Seanna asked, excitedly. "She's chosen you, hasn't she?"

"No, she just wants the wedge of cheese I've got in my pocket," Loghain growled. He took it out and tossed it in the direction of the stables and the puppy's mother. The pup paid no attention to the treat whatsoever, and the yellow pups got into a brief squabble over it.

Limpid puppy eyes waged battle with ice-blue eyes, and the blue eyes were the first to falter. Elilia laughed merrily. "Yield, Loghain, and have done with it. She's chosen you, and that's all there is to say about that. This is hardly the first time you've been defeated in single combat by a young bitch."

"Is she your chosen Champion, then?" Loghain mocked lightly, though he felt far from jocular. He knelt down and the pup put a paw on his knee. "You have atrocious taste in humans, youngling," he muttered as he scratched her ears. Ecstatic to receive attention from her chosen master, the pup closed her eyes and leaned into his hand, panting.

"What will you name him?" Seanna asked Elilia as she and her new pup joined them.

"He's white as snow, so I think I shall call him Haakon, after old Haakon Wintersbreath."

"Heathen," Loghain muttered under his breath, though with the half of a smile.

Elilia fisted her hands on her hips. "All right, Devout Andrastian, what shall _your_ new friend's name be?"

He thought for a moment, and then realized he'd already found the proper name for such a fine dog. "Champion."

"But it's a girl!" Seanna blurted. Loghain cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Champions cannot be female?" he asked. "Elilia is Champion of Redcliffe, though of all her honors I'd call that the very merest. A few years back the city of Kirkwall declared itself a Champion that was also a woman, if I heard the news correctly."

"Right, you're right. Forget I said anything. It just sounded rather boyish to me at first. Champion - it's a good name."

Loghain stood and found the stable master. He presented him with a handful of gold coins. In Ferelden only the unscrupulous _sold_ mabari puppies, but when one was fortunate enough to be chosen by a pup bred by another, and one could afford to pay, a kind of gratuity was only proper. It showed that you were aware of the honor you'd received in being chosen, and expressed thanks for the care the dog had been given before it imprinted.

Duncan and Mustard watched all of this with great interest from the far side of the yard. The boy's keen eyes saw that not only had the Lady been chosen, but so too had Grandfather. _And_ by the finest pups in the litter. Excited, he raced his pup back inside, eager to share the news with mother and father.

As the trio - quintet now, with the dogs - left the stables the stable master dropped to his knees before his own mabari, took her face in both hands, and roughed her up lovingly. "Pups gone to the young Prince, the Lady Cousland, and Teyrn Loghain himself! Mirani, my lass, you've done well by your babies, you have! You're the Queen of Mabaris!"

The dog barked her complete agreement to this sentiment.

LINE BREAK HERE

He woke with a start and reached for the blade he kept on the bedside table, but in a heartbeat he registered the sound of snuffling and his memory returned. He lifted the sleeping fur and peered beneath it to see a pair of shining eyes staring back at him from somewhere near his knees. Champion had nosed her way under the covers at the foot of the bed and started burrowing her way up to the head of it.

"_This will not stand, _young lady," he said as severely as he could manage, "if it should happen that there is a _human _lady in this bed with me some night." The dog's stump of a tail wagged briskly and she whined her understanding. "Come on up, then, if such is your intention."

She bellied up and stuck her head out from under the blankets. She licked his face to show her gratitude and stretched out beside him with her head resting on his chest. He scratched her ears and that itchy spot on the side of her neck - her human had smart hands, such a blessing! - and petted her a bit before falling asleep again, his hand still at rest upon her back. Champion missed her mother, and her brothers and sisters, but the sound of her human's steady heartbeat was soothing and soon she was asleep herself. She was not homesick, for the part of her that knew this was her proper master knew also that where he was she was home.


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen: A Future Unsettled and Undefined**

Good King Alistair didn't _want_ to hear Loghain's opinions on the matter of the likelihood of another Orlesian attack, but to his credit he did not close his mind and refuse to see and hear, as his brother almost surely would have done, at least the Cailan who was so eager to open Ferelden's borders to the Chevaliers in the first place. The worn, haggard look in his face seemed to say that he'd known all along it was too much to hope they were free and clear.

"What do you think they'll do?" he asked, dully.

"For now I believe they'll think. We took them by surprise, and they'll be wondering just how strong we are in our allies, how much support we can mount against them from dwarves and werewolves and mages. We need to use this time, My King, to strengthen our borders the best we can. Our biggest weakness is our coastline - we're shit for sailors and our 'navy' is a joke. We have a large population of unemployed, put every man jack of them with a strong back to work strengthening harbor fortifications. These are the main priorities here, here, and here," he said, pointing out Denerim, Amaranthine, and Highever ports. "If you still have resources you should do what you can here at West Hills and Gwaren. Is Old Ironsides afloat?"

The King looked momentarily puzzled, then sheepish. "She's in dry dock."

"Well get her _out_ of dry dock and get her seaworthy. She's the only real for-the-purpose warship we've got, and while it's nowhere near enough it is at least a start. Hire mercenary vessels to patrol our waters if you can find any that seem reasonably trustworthy. Send other vessels again to Kirkwall and all the other seaports that took in Ferelden refugees and do whatever you can to bring more of them back -reinstatement of rank, full salary, whatever you can to get more soldiers on the field. Offer jobs and citizenship, too, and see if you can't lure a few of the poorer Marchers over with opportunities. There's going to be plenty of work for everyone, and we need all hands. Start courting allies, too, in the Free Marches, yes, but I suggest sending emissaries to Nevarra, far as it is. They hate the Orlesians as much as we do and have better resources to fight them. Perhaps they can't be persuaded to send us direct assistance but if they could be convinced that this would be an opportune time to strike at Orlais' western border that could only be a help to us. And Alistair…?"

"Yes?"

"It's time to stop accepting the excuses of the Banns who've shown reluctance thus far to honor their obligations to the Crown. If any of them still wish to hem and haw about sending their forces to aid their country, you need to show them what they risk by disobeying their rightful King and Queen."

* * *

Anora sipped her tea and spoke of inconsequential things, and that worried Elilia. If the Queen didn't want to get right to the point then the Queen had something up her capacious sleeve. Eventually she set her delicate cup aside and spoke more directly, though Elilia was sure she was still not getting the full story.

"I spoke to Ser Cauthrien recently. She's been in charge of my father's former Teyrnir for some time now, you are aware, protecting my daughter's interests for the day when she may take her rightful place as Teyrna. It is rather difficult to get word to and from the village with the Imperial Highway running through the Blight Lands and the Brecilian Passage often beset by werewolves, so I was eager to hear her account of how things are going there. She is rather frazzled, poor soul, by the demands of rule, though she's done admirably well. Are you aware of the changes that have come over my little home village since the Blight?"

"I've never been there, Your Majesty, but I understand that many inhabitants of the worst-hit areas fled there hoping to make passage to the Free Marches."

"And many found they could not afford it. And later many found there were no ships to be had, for once the captains left Ferelden behind they did not choose to return. The Darkspawn, for whatever reason, never turned their aggression much toward the village, and so many chose to remain there, feeling it was safer than trying to leave. They live there still. Gwaren has become rather a large town - almost a city."

"So I've heard."

"After hearing Cauthrien's report on the situation there, I have concluded, and the King agrees, that Gwaren may now require the services of a Bann to oversee the town, and take pressure off the one in charge of overseeing the wider scope of the teyrnir. It was never large enough to require more than its mayor in the past, but we must accept that times have changed."

"Bann of Gwaren," Elilia stated, tasting the words. It would be better to be Bann of a town far isolated from the rest of the nation than to be the wife of some pompous blowhard here in the center of it all.

"Cauthrien is quite keen on the idea. She is very hopeful that it comes to pass."

Elilia felt a small twinge of prickled pride at being the underling of a woman of no noble birth or official station, but swallowed it. She hadn't been a Cousland again for long enough to get uppity about such things. "Provided I'm given the time to complete the mission your father and I are planning, I suppose I would not be adverse to the idea, if Your Majesty wishes it. Am I then to be Bann of Gwaren?"

Anora's perfectly-trimmed blonde eyebrows rose into her hairline. "Maker, no. _Cauthrien_ is to be Bann, Lady Cousland, not you. It is a far better reward for her service than the position she has now. The conferment of noble status, her own vote in the Landsmeet. Right now she has the power only to advise my vote on behalf of Gwaren. She will also not be spread so thin trying to juggle the demands of city and teyrnir. Even my father had his difficulties, and he had not the burden of a large town at his doorstep to bother over."

Elilia was confused, and told the Queen as much. "Who then is to be King's Protector of Gwaren?"

Anora waved a hand over her teacup as though she waved off steam. "The position will be dissolved. My intention is to install a proper Teyrna, provided I have that Teyrna's assurance that my daughter will be her lawful heir."

* * *

The Grand Cleric at last came before the King and Queen with word from the Divine. The old priest looked ill-pleased by the news she had to convey.

"Her Grace the Divine implores me to reason with Your Majesties," the woman said. "Sedition, she says, cannot be tolerated, but she is willing to give Ferelden a chance to throw itself upon the mercy of its Right Masters."

"Sedition? The bitch calls us rebels when we only defend our own rightful sovereignty?" Anora cried out, incensed beyond protocol.

Instead of taking affront, the Grand Cleric looked only as though she would like to add a few choice words of her own. "I fear for too long has the hierarchy of our Chantry been tied to the fortunes of the Empire. They have forgotten their just place above the petty tyrants who seek to grab power and wealth for themselves at the cost of those who are weaker than they. I cannot in good faith counsel appeasement with Orlais, no matter that my duty calls me to stand behind the word of the Divine. All of Thedas should take alarm at this precedent of the Chantry deciding the fate of free nations. The Empress and her knights and nobility believe themselves the chosen of the Maker, and set themselves to be greater than those beneath them, demigods who are free to take what they will from those less than they, as if the lower classes were less even than animals. To my way of thinking, if the Maker were truly to look down upon Thedas and decide to take a hand in the way things are run here, He would smite Orlais with both fists."

_Too bad we didn't call Loghain in to hear this,_ Alistair thought. _I think he'd jump up and kiss this woman full on the mouth._

But the Grand Cleric had more to say. "I do not wish to precipitate war, you understand. I'm sure you are as painfully aware as I of Orlais' strength of arms and resources. If they truly wish to retake Ferelden for their own then I fear greatly for the nation. I have sent a messenger to the Divine, imploring her to reconsider her position. I do not think I have much chance of changing her mind, but hopefully I can buy Ferelden a bit of extra time. I will hold her off as long as I can. If I might be so bold as to suggest, Your Majesties, it would seem to me a fine idea to seek all the allies you can muster against this impending danger. Perhaps if our armies are fortified strongly enough, Orlais will decide it is simply not worth the effort."

"Will you release the Circle to fight alongside us?" Anora asked.

"You know, Your Majesty, that the Divine has ordered all Circles locked down after the unfortunate events in Kirkwall. And the Knight-Commander is in an uproar because somehow a dozen mages managed to escape. They would be tracking these apostates now, but for the fact I have forbidden such use of manpower at this time."

That seemed to be the end of it, but a strange half-smile curved one corner of the Grand Cleric's mouth. "The phylacteries of the missing mages are here in Denerim, in a locked storeroom under the Chantry. If they were destroyed it would be a disaster, so I do hope Your Majesties will say nothing of this to any but your most trusted advisors, for fear of the unscrupulous. But that's as may be, you asked me if I would release the Circle mages to fight. There is no question in my mind that the mages of Orlais will be allowed - nay, _forced_ - to fight if the Empress sends more forces against us, given that the untrained eye might have believed us to be aided by magic in our defeat of their first assault. I will not have our people suffer for an edict of an unjust Divine. The Circle will be allowed to join the armies of Ferelden. And if Your Majesties were able to find more of those clever souls who were able to mimic magical talent so very closely, I believe that would be most wise."

"You are not afraid of the consequences of using…mimicked magic?" Alistair asked, cautiously.

The Grand Cleric's smile was tight and hard. "I remember the Occupation, Your Majesty, quite vividly. Not all of my Revered Mothers will agree, but for myself I'd sooner risk billeting ten maleficars than _one sodding Chevalier."_

* * *

It was much as it had been in days long past, countless hours planning and drafting blueprints for defensive structures, setting up training programs, hearing reports on military activity. Part of him wished to be dead and not have to see this, not have to deal with all of this again. During the Rebellion he'd been a young man who could not honestly conceive of failure, and with few ties to worry him. Now it was different, he'd tasted the bitterness of defeat and knew it could be his again, and the stakes seemed so very much higher.

Every spare moment found him with the children, either enjoying their company or standing guard over them while they slept. He very seldom slept at all these days, even when he felt he needed it. There was so much to do, and so very little time. At his side always was Champion, already as dignified and stalwart a hound even with her puppyish awkwardness as a dog of many years and campaigns. Such a fine animal, a worthy successor to beloved Adalla. Their bond grew stronger daily.

Even in the face of bustling preparations, Elilia seemed perfectly optimistic. He wondered at that. Was it a brave face she wore, to keep those around her from despair? Or did she truly believe that they'd managed to land a blow powerful enough to shake the foundation of the Empire? He had to bear in mind that no matter how hard she'd toiled to prepare for the defeat of the Blight, essentially it had all come down to one grand battle - cut the head off the demon and save the world. Leaderless, the Darkspawn were no longer a threat. All of her battles, right down to the one she fought against him to end the civil war, were very much the same - prove your might to the adversary and accept its surrender. Real wars, against ordinary enemies, were a bit different. If he sent an assassin to Val Royeaux tonight to stab Celene in the heart then tomorrow there would be a new head on the snake, probably all the more eager for Ferelden blood because of it. It _might_ slow them down, and if he had a worthy assassin on hand he might think to attempt it, but the only way to be sure and dissuade the invaders was to catch them each time they made a sortie, and crush them into the dirt. Ferelden…didn't have the _strength_ to keep that up for long, not as they stood now. The little pouch of ashes he carried always at his belt seemed to carry also a small weight of hope. If it worked, if he could restore even a portion of the once-rich Ferelden breadbasket, if they could _feed their soldiers_…

They had to leave soon, no matter how dire the situation here at the capital. He took out his map once more and added a lighter outline defining the many hundreds of acres of land that could be worked but which now produced no more than stunted, withered crops that tasted bad and were likely poisoning the poor people who depended on them for their daily provender. If the ashes worked, the crops growing there now might by harvest grow strong and fruitful. If they recovered no more than that it would be a bountiful miracle indeed. If they could save the truly Blighted lands where nothing would grow, then if the nation still stood in the spring they could sow crops and pasture animals enough to feed the country and every ally they could draw into it. He still hated to leave with things so up in the air, but between the two of them he believed Alistair and Anora were equal to the task of carrying out and even improving his plans for defense.

Well, tell the truth and spurn the Black Divine, he was counting on Anora perhaps a bit more than Alistair. He was a good lad and far better as King than Loghain had ever expected he'd be, but he was still…Alistair.

He moved in darkness to Baby Anora's crib side. The little girl wrestled with demons in her sleep, and by the triumphant smile on her face she was getting the better of them. Dear little thing, she had the makings of a legendary warrior. He smoothed back her unruly curls and kissed her, and the nightmare loosed its grip upon her slumber. He covered her little, cold feet with the blankets and moved on to Duncan's bed. The boy slept peacefully, his dreams untroubled, the dark spirits of the Fade perhaps held at bay by the talisman of the fine silverite dagger that lay beside the pillow, carefully sheathed, and the mustard-yellow pup that sprawled across the foot of the bed. The boy was thoughtful and knew the value of both caution and boldness, which many of his elders had yet to learn so well. He was well on the way to becoming a just and wise King.

But no child's future was set, and there would be no future for them at all if they did not live. He remembered what the Orlesians did to the Theirin family the last time they felt Ferelden needed to be made an example of. Unspeakable tortures would be visited upon the children, and their deaths would be public spectacle. He could not bear such a cruel fate. He would not leave them to the "mercy" of Orlais. If the kingdom looked to be overthrown and there was no escape he would take his father's blade and slit their throats himself.

* * *

She slipped through the darkened streets of the lower market in a black woolen cloak, hood drawn up to shroud her face. She'd left Seanna behind, not wanting to risk her in this insane venture, and Haakon as well. The pup had begged and pleaded to follow but his white fur was a beacon. She commanded him to stay and guard Seanna.

The front doors of the Chantry were unbarred, and she slipped inside. A quick peek around the interior showed the place was eerily silent and utterly deserted, which should never be true of a place of worship the size of this. Either she was walking into a trap or the Grand Cleric had sent the priests and the old bat of a Revered Mother off on nighttime errands. If the former turned out to be the case she had her sword in harness on her back under the cloak. If it was the latter she would stand in the palace square in full light of day and declare the Grand Cleric Ferelden's Own White Divine. She slipped into the vestry and down the narrow stairs into the underbelly of the house where dwelt the Brides of the Maker.

She found the locked door, wished vainly for a moment that her training had included the fine art of lock picking or that she had thought to ask Loghain along - he probably knew a few of the more "practical" arts of survival, even though he would just scoff and tell her that breaking into locked rooms was "not my area of expertise." Leliana would have been a useful companion on this mission but she had gone back to her beloved Chantry and once more renounced her bardic training. Zevran was off somewhere waging war against the Antivan Crows. Nathaniel and Sigrun were busy in Amaranthine. With a sigh for the good old days, Elilia brought her fist down hard on the lock. The wood of the door splintered and it popped open. Messy, but perfectly adequate to the purpose. Her hand hurt, though, even through the dragonbone gauntlet. _Note to self: make friends with a trusty cloak-and-dagger type keen on adventure. _A good lock-picker and trap-snapper was a must on any well-organized expedition.

She more than half expected to be beset by enraged templars the moment the door was open, but the room proved as empty as the rest of the building. She crept inside and found the racks of crystal vials containing the blood of scores of mages. She read the neat labels carefully and each time she found one of the names on her list she took that vial and pocketed it. She would destroy them someplace more private, and wash the blood away. She would not leave it to pool and possibly be collected again by resourceful priests. Finally she found the most important name - Seanna Surana.

"They still have you caged, Little Bird," she whispered, "but that ends tonight."

With a brief prayer of thanksgiving for clerics who knew the difference between what was law and what was right, she hurried back out of the house of worship and into the night.


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen: Like the Last Night of Our Lives**

Loghain entered the ladies' room fully intent on having his say, but when he saw Elilia sitting primly in the big wingback armchair with her legs drawn up beneath her, working daintily with a lap-sized shuttle, he completely forgot what he wanted to have out with her. Unperturbed, Champion padded into the room and flopped down on the floor next to her brother, after a friendly sniff of greeting.

"What are you _doing?" _he asked in some dismay. Somehow the idea that Elilia would be making lace seemed to him the death knell of any last shred of hope he had that she would ever be his again. Probably had something to do with a _trousseau_. She was preparing herself for her new noble household and her new noble husband, Maker curse his name whoever he was.

"Tatting," she answered, with a prim set to her mouth.

"Tatting," he repeated, unable to think of one further word to say.

"Yes, tatting. It is a fine pursuit for an accomplished lady. I shall also take up spinning, and will practice while we are on the road. Then I shall always have a ready supply of fine handmade thread with which to tat."

"Spinning. We're not hauling a bloody spinning wheel across the breadth of Ferelden." He was fairly certain now that she was having him on, but he could not be sure how far.

"I shall carry a distaff and spin by hand, like the old women who spin by the side of the road in small villages with a gimlet eye for passers by," she said archly, and then her expression crumbled and she laughed. "Actually, Seanna finished working the loveliest embroidered handkerchief and I rather rashly promised to make her a border of lace in my mother's old family pattern, before I remembered that I haven't tatted lace in ages. It's coming back to me in littles. _'Did you want something? I suppose I have a moment.'"_

"I wanted _something, _but you quite broke my chain of thought, and it shall be difficult to pick it up again if you persist in mocking me," he said. He scratched his head thoughtfully. Elilia espied the book in his other hand.

"What are you reading?" she asked, further distracting him from the point of his visit and not caring a whit.

He was startled by the question. "What? Oh…" Sheepishly he showed her the book. "It's…Duncan's primer on Natural Philosophy, actually. With things so unsettled my mind has been a whirl, and now and then it crops up some ridiculous question and I've no peace until I've found an answer. But so far the answer only compounds the question. I thought that a book meant for young schoolchildren would be easier for me to comprehend but I suppose I'm further behind than I thought."

"What question were you trying to answer?" Elilia asked.

He grimaced. "'Where does the sun go when it sets?'"

She blinked. "You asked _yourself_ this question? Duncan didn't ask you?"

He shrugged. "It just occurred to me that I hadn't a clue. It just doesn't look that far away, yet it certainly doesn't set in _Ferelden_. It crosses the whole of our nation and Orlais, and Nevarra too, and Maker knows how much further beyond, which means that it must be _unbelievably_ far away, and fucking _enormous _since the whole of Thedas can see the damned thing. The book doesn't say anything about that. It talks about the edges of the earth but it doesn't make a claim as to where exactly they might be, just that they're somewhere beyond the place where our maps end. It makes it sound like the world just _stops_, in a nice straight line, which makes no sense to me. What keeps the water from just draining right over the edge? Is there a wall to stop it?"

Elilia was looking at him as if at a madman, but he plowed on relentlessly, on a roll. "The book says the sun circles us, but is that true? Perhaps the sun is perfectly still and _we're _the ones in motion, too used to it even to notice! And was the world truly made like a piece of parchment, forests and mountain ranges and towns all laid out on the flat by the Maker or whoever, or is it more like a stone upon which moss has grown? If I could stride across the earth and water at the same speed as the sun would I eventually come to the edge and fall off as the scholars claim or would I find myself back where I started from in a single day as the sun seems to? And how is it the sun and moon and stars seem just to hang there in the sky? Surely there is something holding them, just as something must be holding us. Could we be like frogspawn, safe and oblivious in a bubble of air we cannot think beyond as the stone to which we are attached tumbles about in a stream surrounded by all these other bright, shiny stones?"

Elilia shook her head. "'Oh, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown,'" she said, sounding as if she quoted - probably that Bard fellow everybody was talking about these days. "You need a change of scenery, I think. I'll be glad when we leave this place."

Seanna spoke up from the next room. "I think he has some good questions, if he lacks a bit in background information." She came to the doorway. "Seeking answers to questions like those are how we further our knowledge, not by simply accepting what we are told at face value. Loghain has the makings of a fine philosopher."

Elilia laughed heartily at that. "Oh, what a capital joke it would be to retool the Great Pragmatist into an airy-fairy philosopher! He might actually manage to cut through much of the foolishness of that breed and find some actual truth, too. It would keep him occupied between wars, at any rate."

Seanna smiled crookedly. "Pragmatism is a philosophy of its own," she pointed out. To Loghain she continued, "I believe that you have spent much of your life absorbing whatever you could learn about the arts of warfare and military strategy and did not bother with much else, and it is clear from your knowledge of these things that you have a fine mind, but I should think it wants more than that. The brain needs nourishment and exercise the same as any other muscle, and yours is crying out for better food and more complex work. I dare say Elilia is right, a man like you could have the dedication and even the _genius_ to answer some of the unanswered questions of this world, if you chose to pursue them. Read your primer, even if the questions vex you. Feed your head."

"But I would recommend getting your own copy, or else the Prince will be called to task for it with his tutors," Elilia said, and she would smile and make a joke of it, the harpy. "Get a book written for grownup minds and not for children, too. My old tutor Aldous always said that the printing houses foist the worst nonsense on young scholars and that it was misery itself to reteach them properly."

"It's true," Elilia said, rather darkly. "The Chantry has them print schoolbooks a certain way so that young minds don't get 'dangerous ideas,' whatever that means."

Loghain laughed harshly. "Perhaps I'll warn Anora that her son is being taught to be a vacuous fool of the sort the Chantry is so fond of," he said. "I'll look into the matter of a better book. It would be something to keep me occupied between wars, though perhaps my mind is exactly the sort that should not be trusted with information that leads to 'dangerous ideas.'"

Seanna smiled, a bit of her old shyness evident in it. "While we are traveling I would be glad to help you as much as I can - in the Circle life was nothing but study, so I'm quite used to it."

"So what is it you came here to talk about, Loghain?" Elilia asked, a bit sharply. Was that a note of jealousy he heard in her voice? He smirked at it, but the truth was that he could not speak of the matter he had wanted to broach in front of Seanna, though she seemed aware of his interest in Elilia. Asking her to bed him tonight, even if never again, was just too personal a request to be made in public, no matter how close the friendship might be. He grabbed for a topic that had been much on his mind of late, when not consumed with foolish questions about the mysterious workings of the sun and stars.

"I was wondering if you had anything to contribute to my plans for foiling potential assassination attempts," he said. "I've spoken to Their Majesties about increasing their personal guard, but we both know a clever Bard would have no trouble infiltrating the palace regardless." Like that bloody fool of a Bard everyone, Elilia included it seems, was quoting these days. He claimed to be Ferelden but who could know for sure? Just because he was balding and rather paunchy didn't mean he was harmless.

Elilia huffed. "First thing I'd do is get rid of that Erlina," she growled, in a fair imitation of Loghain. He sighed.

"I know. _Believe_ me, I know. But Anora says she knew from the first that Erlina was sent here by the Empress to spy on our court, and that she won the girl over. She is now, according to Anora, completely loyal to Ferelden. Or to Anora, more likely. I'd still prefer to kill her regardless, but Anora won't hear of it. And if she _is_ loyal then I suppose she's quite valuable. She has at least agreed, for the present, not to let the woman out of her personal sight during the day, and to lock her in her rooms at night. Not that this calms me much." A thundercloud descended upon his countenance.

"Some of the mages who returned with the army are working for the King and Queen now, correct?" Seanna said. "There are a few simple spells that can test food and drink for poison, and you could put a couple of them to scrying in shifts for assassins. It's not foolproof, but it would certainly be a grand help."

Loghain slapped his thigh. "Seanna, you're a godsend, truly. A fine idea. I'll relay it to the King and Queen at once."

Elilia sniffed. "Yes, do. I've nothing for you myself, and if Seanna has no further suggestions then I'll thank you to leave - I'm expecting a gentleman caller at any moment and your presence would be most inconvenient."

Loghain stared at her, horrorstruck. A gentleman caller? She would fling it in his face like that? He had known her to be a foul harpy, yes, but he had never thought her cruel. Much deflated, he bowed himself out. With a dubious glance at Elilia, Champion followed.

Seanna put a hand on Elilia's shoulder. "That was rather heartless of you, really," she said gently.

Elilia laughed. "He had it coming. Besides, I don't want him to know about my plans - there are good reasons why I don't like to bring up Alienages, particularly _this_ one, with Loghain. Perhaps he'd like to be given a chance to make some sort of restitution there but he's hardly someone who could casually begin buying up property without it being called to Vaughan's attention."

Seanna shook her head. "I don't believe he came here to speak of assassination attempts or philosophy, Elilia, and neither do you. You've been blocking his every attempt to speak to you privately since we returned to Denerim. If you want him you should tell him so, for I believe he wants you. If you do _not _want him then you should not be jealous if another woman speaks kindly to him. And it is cruel to leave him hanging onto hope if there is none."

Haakon picked himself up off the floor and stuck his head in Elilia's lap, nudging aside the shuttle. He'd smelled the mating-smell on the male human and could hardly blame him for wanting the Mistress for his own, and Haakon was hopeful that she would relent because then he and his sister would be proper packmates again, which would be wonderful. And the Mistress would have a litter, and Haakon would like very much to be guardian of her pretty furless human pups. The Mistress scratched his ears.

"I'm not jealous," Elilia said defensively, "and I'm not hanging him out to dry, I'm just…ugh, it's complicated. I'd rather he just…grabbed me and bent me over a barrel than to actually have to…talk about it."

"You would _not," _Seanna said firmly but kindly, "want him to rape you. Trust me, I know whereof I speak." And she did, too, Elilia realized with a pang of regret at her careless words. "You don't want to talk? Fine, don't talk - but you'd better _act _quickly, or he's simply going to assume you don't want him and he won't spend a great deal of time pining for what he believes he cannot have. Get him alone somewhere tonight and give him a kiss, or a caress - or a good hard fondle, if you've the privacy and he's not wearing an armored codpiece. I'll be safe enough alone for one night," she added, with a sly smile.

"Seanna, you clever witch! You just want the bed to yourself!" Elilia cried, grinning.

Seanna laughed. "Well I confess, it would be nice to have one night to myself. You're such a blanket thief!"

The ladies laughed together and chatted a bit until an uncertain-looking servant came to announce "That dwarven-bloke Your Ladyship was expectin'."

"Ah, yes. Send him in, please," Elilia said, not even noticing the servant's odd looks or how inappropriate it might be considered to be receiving a guest - a _male_ guest, and a dwarf - in her bedroom, even if she didn't have the luxury of a receiving parlor. The stout man entered, red-haired and bearded. He reminded her a bit of Oghren in look, but with more dignity and less drunkenness, which admittedly was not a high bar. "Ser Gorim, so good of you to come. I had it from our…mutual acquaintance…when we first encountered one another that you were once Second to a prince of Orzammar, and Warrior Caste. Pursuing inquiries of my own in recent days I have heard nothing but that you are a man of excellent faith and fair-handedness."

_Undwarvenly_ fair-handedness, by account of most of the people she'd talked to, but he certainly didn't need to hear that.

He inclined his head slightly. "My Lady does me too much honor. I am but a simple merchant now, but I make an effort to live by the code of conduct insisted upon by the good Prince I served, Ancestors bless and keep him."

"I need a man I can trust to carry out a work of good faith for me. A commission, if you will, though dwarven smithing has no part in it."

She told him her plan, and though he seemed a bit confused by her intentions - the Alienage was, to him, just another Dust Town and he did not know why the nobility should be so interested in purchasing space there - but he understood the instructions well enough. She had him repeat them, to be sure.

"Make inquiries about the Hahren's house of its owner and secure its purchase. Wait a month, then send another whom I trust but who cannot be easily linked to me to purchase another property. Repeat, varying the cooling-off interval and never sending the same agent twice, until the Alienage is fully in your hands."

"Exactly. I give you five sovereigns to give in payment to each agent, and twenty for you yourself at the outset. There will be an additional ten sovereigns to you when the task is successfully completed."

"It will be done, My Lady. Er…"

"Yes?"

"What am I to do if the city…"

_If the city falls to the Orlesians. _Elilia smiled grimly. "What everyone else must do if that unfortunate event happens - flee and save your own skin, and good luck to you. But it won't happen. The King and Queen are preparing against the worst, and Loghain is at his brutal best in thinking of all the ways the Orlesians could invade and all the ways to block them. Ferelden will stand."

The dwarf bowed. "As you say, My Lady, and so may it be."

* * *

Loghain entered the throne room to find a mild state of pandemonium. His first thought, with the idea of assassins fresh in mind, was that he was too late and an attempt had been made, but when he found King Alistair cradling a fussy Baby Anora and wearing an expression of pure parental overreaction he realized the panic was of a more domestic nature.

"What happened?" he growled, unsettled and pissed off about it.

"Baby Anora swallowed a silver," Alistair groaned. "I've sent for one of the mages we hired."

Loghain felt a grin start up despite himself. "Sent for a mage? Whatever for?"

Alistair goggled at him. "The princess, your granddaughter, swallowed a silver," he repeated, slowly and carefully, as though he spoke to an imbecile.

"And what? Has she crapped out a hundred bits? _That_ would be the time to send for a mage, I think."

The mage arrived then, to Alistair's evident relief, and cast a quick spell on the struggling girl. "Ah, yes, it_ is_ a silver. It's already reached the child's stomach," the man said.

"Well…_get it out," _Alistair said desperately. The mage, silver-haired and probably used to the idiocy of the relatively inexperienced even if he'd not had much opportunity to see the ways in which worried parents fretted over the smallest things, gave him a look of deep pity.

"Your Majesty, there is no spell that can will the coin out of the child. I could give her a dose of ipecacuanha, but that would be most unpleasant for the Princess and is really not necessary at this point. The coin will drop into the intestine in a matter of time, and will pass in the usual way."

"In other words, 'It'll all come out in the end,' so to speak," Loghain said.

"If the child experiences stomach pains, or if in three days' time there has been no sign of the coin then measures should be taken to remove it," the mage said. "But there is little to fear - the coin has nicely rounded edges and is not large. A laxative may be needed if it does not, as my Lord says, 'Come out in the end,' but I shouldn't think it likely. Children swallow inappropriate things, Your Majesty. I do not think the Princess will come to harm over this misadventure."

"They also stick inappropriate things up their noses," Loghain pointed out helpfully. "With Anora it was a little wooden chair from the dollhouse her grandfather made her. _That_ hurt, I can assure you. She never stuck anything up her nose again, I'll tell you."

Alistair clapped his hands over his daughter's ears. "Don't give her ideas, I beg you," he implored. Then he sighed. "Duncan wasn't half as difficult at this age. My daughter shall be the death of me."

"Fathers of daughters always believe that," Loghain said. "I believed it manys the time myself. Let the poor tyke go free and listen to this idea I got from Elilia's mage-friend. It's worth the hearing, I assure you."

He ordered Champion to lead the child back to the nursery, which made the girl very happy. Champion walked with adult gravitas while the child clung to her fur and babbled about the "pitty goggy." Certain of the child's words - _"No!" "Don't!" "Shan't!" _- were very clear and perfectly enunciated, but she had trouble still with anything beyond imperatives. Loghain saw her out of the throne room and then told the King Seanna's plan.

"I know the spells she speaks of," the mage said approvingly. "I could teach the others if they have not learned them. It would be an honor for us to serve Your Majesties so. If I may add, I also know several spells for _removing _poison from food and drink, just in case."

"The Seneschal gave me these," Alistair said, sheepishly holding up a bauble that appeared to be a plain polished stone set in gold and depended from a golden chain with a heavy fob to weight the end. "I made Anora take one, though she laughed at me. He said that King Maric and Queen Rowan used them to guard against poison in the aftermath of the war with Orlais. They do work, don't they?"

"Bezoar stones? Yes, Your Majesty, they are effective against _some_ poisons - most notably arsenic - but not proof against all. Still, it was wisely done."

Loghain left the King and the mage to hammer out the details of bringing in the other mages and setting up shifts to scry for assassins. He wandered without real aim toward the nursery, but a strong hand latched onto his arm before he was halfway there. Elilia pulled him into the empty room and kissed him roughly. "Bar the door," she said, voice husky. He did as bidden.

"What about your 'gentleman caller?'" he asked, with a touch of bitterness. Elilia laughed guiltily.

"It was a merchant, from whom I wished to hire a commission," she said, blushing. "I'm sorry I misled you. A demon of pride made me do it."

"I've been battling my own demons lately," he admitted. "Where _you're_ concerned, however, they've been only demons of desire."

Her blush deepened. "I don't want to _talk," _she said.

"No more do I," Loghain admitted, "but I believe we need to. Elilia, soon Anora will have you married, you know this is so."

"It is her intention, surely, she made that clear, but I don't think she will _command_ it. Alistair is not wholly in step with her on this point, I gather, and she won't press him on it - for now."

"If she intends you for that bastard Vaughan I don't think I shall be able to stand for it," Loghain said, conversationally despite the fact that the mere thought of her going to the bed of that insufferable creature made his blood boil. "I shall kill him with my two bare hands."

Elilia laughed. "That was what I thought I would do myself," she confessed, "but it isn't Vaughan she's set her warrant on, Loghain - it's _you."_

"_What?"_

She nodded. "She wants to make Cauthrien Bann of Gwaren, and give the Teyrnir to me - provided I'll sign the proper legal documents making the Princess my heir. My _own_ children," she said that with some dripping irony, "will then have the right to claim the Teyrnir if something should happen to Baby Anora, or will be made heirs of Highever if my brother will agree."

He thought about it from his daughter's perspective. "That would give her a strong footing in the Landsmeet, to be sure," he mused. "Cauthrien idolizes Anora, always has. You will feel free to disagree at your whim but you're often of a mind with Anora _and_ hold good sway with the Landsmeet. Fergus would have an heir of his sister's body with strong ties to the Crown. But…_me?"_

"She wants your title restored to you, of course," Elilia said. "I would be her means to that end, as Alistair would likely never consent any other way. I would be the one with the Vote but I'm sure Anora assumes _you'd_ be the one doing the ruling in Gwaren."

He held her at arm's length. "And what do you say about this?" he asked, looking her in the eye critically.

She squared her shoulders. "I say good luck to you on _that, _Milord."

He laughed and drew her back into his arms. "I'll toss you for it, Milady," he said, well aware of the double-entendre in his words. She giggled, evidently understanding him quite well.

"I know the way you 'toss,' Milord. You'll have to come up with a better offer and fast."

"Let me show you exactly what it is I'm offering," he said in a throaty voice. He unlaced the front of her blouse and began to kiss his way down her long neck while his hands busied themselves elsewhere. He uncovered the first of her many scars, a short white line on her shoulder where her flesh had been grazed by a poisoned quarrel, and he kissed the knotted tissue. She had given the perfection of her body and the first blush of her youth in service to the nation they both loved, and he loved her for it. Leave the dainty beauties of Court to other men, give him this powerful sword maiden with her fierce, beautiful eyes and her mad, laughing ways. She would tease him unmercifully for the rest of his short, miserable span, but it would be worth every barbed jest she flung at him.

There was no bed in the room but there was a good stout table, the design of which indicated as surely as a guild mark that it came from a craftsman of Gwaren - the irony was not lost on him. It seemed appropriate, as well, even if she deserved more comfort. They could always retire to his bedroom later. That there would be a later was something he would ensure. There was no telling what the future held, for them or for anyone, no matter what their plans. Tonight he would love her like it was the last night of their lives, for there was always the chance it would prove to be so.

A snuffling and wuffing outside the door heralded the return of Champion. The pup scratched at the panels a couple of times, whined curiously, and then grunted as she flopped down across the entry. She knew from the sounds and smells that her human was mating to the tall female, and Champion considered that a fine thing. Soon she and Haakon would be packmates again, and the female would bear the Master a pup. She scratched her ear with a hind foot and settled in to wait.


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **The song Loghain sings is "Heaven Don't Deserve Me," by Gordon Lightfoot. I realize there is no reason for him to know a modern folksong by a Canadian balladeer but there's no reason for Shakespeare to be alive and well and writing plays about Danish princes, either - although I would wager that its actually a melancholy Starkhaven prince he writes of, as the Bard of Ferelden. My thought is that the professional minstrels would travel singing the REALLY old ballads like "The Three Ravens" and the old songs of Robin Hood (The Black Fox, or more probably Rat Red in Ferelden, like as not - does anybody else think that Gareth Mac Tir could potentially have gone by that name at some point?) but that the average person - particularly the soldierly type - would sing shorter, coarser alehouse songs and a few easy ballads. "Heaven Don't Deserve Me" was just too utterly Loghain to pass up.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty: On the Pilgrim's Path**

The morning they left the three companions - and the dogs - were called before the King and Queen for a formal, private farewell and a final consultation. On the way into the throne room Loghain stopped and cadged something off of one of the palace guards that looked suspiciously like a cornhusk cigarette and one of those clever Dwarven sulfur-headed matchsticks. The guard didn't even seem to notice the silver he pressed into his hand, awestruck at the idea of sharing a smoke - more or less - with Loghain Mac Tir.

"We've had word from Orzammar," Alistair informed them, once they stood in a neat line before the throne. "Evidently King Bhelen wishes to give Ferelden a gift, something he's evidently been working on since we got him elected. The message is rather vague as to what that gift might be, exactly, but he promises that it will be 'very appropriate and useful in your nation's current circumstances,' whatever he means by that. He also says that his artisans struggled for some time to find an appropriate subject, but that ultimately they decided to use 'the human Paragons,' whoever they are. He's sending a caravan to Denerim and says they should be here in another month at the latest."

"Don't tell me they're sending us one of those atrocious stone statues they love so much?" Loghain groaned. "Ferelden is already littered with them, wherever there's a Dwarven Merchants Guild."

"It sounds rather like they're sending more than one," Anora said, with a small smile. "The message indicates plurality."

Elilia laughed. "I flippantly asked Bhelen for my head on one of those big statues," she recalled. "I do hope he hasn't taken me at my word at last!"

"I didn't know there were any human Paragons," Seanna said, thoughtfully. "I confess I'm very curious."

Loghain took his cigarette out of his map pouch and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. "I suppose we'll see when we get back," he said out of the other side. He popped the match alight one-handed with a flick of his hard-calloused thumb and held the little flame to the treated cornhusk.

"Father, I thought you quit smoking," Anora said, severely.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "I did. Several times, in fact. I suspect I'll quit several times more before I'm dead."

Anora primmed up her mouth and said nothing further, evidently realizing that expressing her displeasure at the filthy habit only encouraged it. They took their leave shortly thereafter, and shouldered their packs on the main road out of the city - "The Pilgrim's Path," as it was known, leading more or less directly to Amaranthine. They would follow it as far as the Imperial Highway and then turn south, into the Blight lands. They were afoot because, as Loghain pointed out, they would be hard-pressed to feed themselves once they reached the truly poisoned lands. There would be no food there for horses. They made a brief detour to the docks, where Loghain pointed out the vast hulk of an odd-looking vessel being outfitted in the shipyard. It was a mighty craft, with a deep draught and an extraordinarily wide belly, and the whole of its outer hull was clad in thick sheets of hammered metal. The bowsprit was designed with a clear eye to ramming enemy vessels.

"The _Fighting Ferelden," _he said, indicating the ship. "Most folks call her 'Old Ironsides,' though Maric was devilishly pleased to call her the 'Wallowing Loghain.' Arse. _That,_ ladies, is the Ferelden Navy, such as it is. She can crew a hundred men and has on-deck siege catapaults that can hurl fifty pound bombs at her foes. If I could figure out how the Qunari make their black powder, she'd have cannon, too. _Salt peter," _he said darkly and cryptically. He looked at the ship for a moment, then sighed. "She's slow and cumbersome, but she'll do a runner on any one ship - or two, or three - the Orlesians send against us. She'd not be a match against a Qunari dreadnaught…but then again, she might."

"You sound like a proud papa," Elilia laughed.

He puffed his odious cigarette and looked at the ship. "Should," he said at last. He nodded toward the vessel. "She's my youngest daughter." With that he turned and led them back to the main road.

Loghain took a deep pull off his smoke as they walked through the city gates and let it out in a long, slow plume like a dragon's warning breath. "You bought that cigarette just to annoy your daughter, didn't you?" Elilia accused him. He grinned and offered it to her.

"Want a drag?"

She accepted, put it to her lips, and inhaled. She gagged instantly and passed it back, close to retching. "That is foul," she choked out.

"Indeed it is," Loghain said, in a melancholy sort of voice, and flicked the butt onto the packed earth and ground it out beneath his heel. Champion barked her approval at the disposal of the smelly-stick.

"We should be singing," Seanna said. Elilia turned in her steps to look at her. "We _should," _the mage insisted, blushing. "All adventurers should set out with a song. For luck."

"You know, you are absolutely right," Elilia said. "And for double-luck, the leader of our expedition should choose the first song and start us out right." She turned around again and jabbed Loghain in the back with a very hard finger. "That means _you, _Dragon Breath."

She expected him to protest, so he didn't. Instead, with a wry smile, he said, "You know you just made me the leader and you can't take it back later, right? Seanna will stand as my witness to it, as will Champion and Haakon."

She sighed. "This Sanday Outing of ours was your idea, Milord, so that makes you our figurehead. I, of course, shall be the _de facto _leader, but I'll choose my battles. Now sing, damn you. If it's bad enough the dogs will howl and drown you out."

He thought deeply for a moment. He knew but a few songs, and fewer still he could do any justice to. Finally he grinned.

"_I'm not afraid that when I'm dyin'_

_There'll be no one to hold my hand._

_If there's a god up there He loves me_

_As much as my old woman can."_

He gave Elilia a sidelong glance at those words, grinning, and she cackled and elbowed him in the ribs. She joined him in singing the rest but Seanna was unfamiliar with the song - not the type one might learn in the Circle, after all - and she listened and enjoyed it greatly. The two together were not great singers, but the dogs did not howl.

"_I don't intend to be a martyr._

_I don't give a damn what people say,_

_And if I never get to heaven,_

_Heaven don't deserve me anyway._

"_I've tasted life, both good and evil._

_At times I was cruel and did not pay,_

_And if I never get to heaven,_

_Heaven don't deserve me anyway._

"_I don't know what it was I came for_

_But I've enjoyed it up 'til now._

_If there's a friend who ever needs me,_

_I'll do my best to help somehow._

"_I don't intend to keep no secrets._

_I don't give a damn what people say,_

_And if I never get to heaven,_

_Heaven don't deserve me anyway._

"_I know, and I'll admit, my failures._

_I don't give a damn what people say,_

_And if I never get to heaven,_

_Heaven don't deserve me anyway._

"_And if I never get to heaven,_

_Heaven don't deserve me anyway."_

When they finished Seanna clapped her hands enthusiastically. "Oh, that was a fine song! Well done!"

"That song is Age-old," Elilia said, "but it sounds as though someone wrote it with our Estimable Leader in the forethought of his mind, doesn't it?"

"Thought you'd like it," Loghain grumbled, good-naturedly. They continued in peaceable silence for a time until Haakon's hackles rose. Champion stopped, sniffed, and growled low in her throat as well.

"Bandits?" Elilia asked. They were common enough on the Pilgrim's Path. Loghain unsheathed his sword, though he left his shield in harness for the time being.

"Like as not. Better be ready for trouble."

Soon enough the sounds of shouting came to their ears, the clink of metal on metal and a dog barking, and a high baying that sounded something like the old Rebel Yell that had often presaged a successful ambush during the Rebellion. There was also an odd sound none of them quite recognized, a metallic rattling followed by an authoritative _"POOM-fwooop."_ The _"POOM-fwoop" _came every two or three seconds, the rattling in between each.

"_Bianca's getting lonely!" _someone, a man, cried out.

"Someone's under attack," Elilia said, but Loghain was already moving up the road towards the sound of altercation. Elilia unsheathed her greatsword and motioned Seanna to follow. The mage gripped her burlwood staff tightly and girded herself for battle. She cast a spell of heroic defense upon her friends and spelled their weapons with ice.

Elilia was not far behind Loghain as he rounded a corner and came full on the scene of a group of thugs attacking a pair of dwarves and a half-grown mabari. He let out a terrible war cry and flung himself into the fray, startling the male dwarf rather badly. Fortunately the man quickly seemed to realize this new attack was launched in his defense and didn't put a quarrel between Loghain's eyes. The crossbow he held was enormous and quite magnificent, and was the source of the strange noise. The dwarven woman, for her part, paid no mind to the surprise attack at all but merely kept slashing at the bandits with her dual blades. She was the one howling like a rabid mabari. The dog, a bit older and better grown than Champion and Haakon, fought at her side.

Between the eight of them they quickly put down the remaining bandits. Only then did the dwarven woman wipe the blood from her eyes and acknowledge the assistance. "Sodding stone, dusters, you've got good timing. Thanks a bundle." Her rough speech as much as the black brand over her right eye marked her as a former Casteless.

The man pulled a powerful lever on his crossbow, which folded up neatly for storage in the harness on his back. He did not have a brand, and his fine leather coat and the quality of the tunic beneath marked him as wealthy even if not highborn. "I second that," he said. "We were tougher than they were expecting, for sure, but your timely arrival was more than welcome. Varric Tethras, at your service," he said, with a grand flourish. "This is my sister, Laz Brosca."

Elilia looked from one to the other and back again. Except for similar hair color - strawberry blonde, a bit redder in her case than his - there wasn't much relationship in their looks even discounting the brand. Varric had an immensely heavy jaw, though his features were rather well-balanced, and the woman's face was almost delicate by dwarven standards. The woman, Laz, saw her dubious expression and grinned. There was blood in her teeth.

"Varric's pap used to be a noble in Orzammar before he got himself and his house booted," she said gaily. "He said his ma used to bitch about the 'drunk noble hunter' his daddy bagged that didn't even give him a son. My ma is a drunk noble hunter who always bitched at me for not being the son that would have pulled her out of the slums. Not exactly proof-positive, but sometimes you gotta take family where you can get it, eh?"

The part-grown mabari barked, and Laz slung an arm across its back. "Oh yeah, sorry. This is my dog, Paragon. We haven't been together that long, so sometimes I forget to introduce her."

"Paragon?" Seanna said. Laz's grin widened.

"Figured she deserved to be one. And if it offends those nug-humpers back in Orzammar, so much the better. Never thought I'd have a mabari, of all people in the world, but I ran across this nasty lady who was beating the poor pup, trying to make it imprint to her. Dumb bitch. Anyway, I sliced her up a bit and Paragon decided she was better off with me. True story. Lady was one of your Priests, too, which kinda made me madder about it. I thought they were supposed to be nice."

Elilia's face became a curious study, dead white and drawn. Varric saw and misinterpreted her offense. "When my sister says she 'sliced her up a bit,' I assure you she's exaggerating completely. She would never hurt a member of the Chantry. Much."

Elilia shook her head. "No, no - it's not that. I just have this horrible feeling I know who you're talking about, is all. Did you happen to find out the Priest's name?"

"I did - thought maybe I could rat on her, but couldn't figure out who I was supposed to talk to about dog-abuse. Sister Habren," Laz said. Elilia sighed gustily.

"My idiot cousin. Poor Cousin Leonas, he thought the Chantry would be some sort of miracle cure for her. The whole final straw for him was when he found out she'd bought and killed _fifteen mabari puppies _trying to get one to imprint to her. She doesn't even _like_ dogs, she just wanted the status."

Haakon whined and pawed at her feet, then sat down on top of them and looked up at her winningly. She reached down and scratched his ears, soothed by his presence and his silent assertion that he knew _she_ was not to be blamed for her poor relations.

"Excuse me," Seanna said shyly, "but are you the Varric Tethras who wrote…?"

"_Hard in Hightown. Hard in Hightown: Siege Harder. Hard in Hightown: Hard to Kill. _And the _only _authorized biography of the Champion of Kirkwall. The very same, Milady," he said, with a sweeping bow.

Seanna put a hand to her mouth to stifle a fit of the giggles, then dropped her pack and dug out the already much-worn copy of _Hard in Hightown: Siege Harder. _She held it out cover-first for him to see.

"I'm honored. I don't see too many of my works since the Chantry banned them. Too heretical. Ha. _C'est la vie."_

Loghain growled. Elilia smacked him upside the head, not terribly hard. "Sorry. My friend gets a little grumpy when he hears spoken Orlesian."

The dwarf just smiled and shrugged. "To be perfectly honest with you, its been known to set my teeth on edge from time to time, too. And given what's going on here lately, I can hardly blame him. To set your mind at rest, Messer, I'm no Orlesian but a proud son of the Free Marches, though I confess to not taking much pride in the old hometown at the moment. Kirkwall can be a hell of a nasty place, but it's the only home I've ever known. If its not too bold of me to ask, your names are…?"

Elilia and Loghain shared a glance at one another. Neither of them particularly wanted to answer. Finally Elilia took the bit in her teeth and had out with it. "I'm Elilia Cousland. These are my friends Seanna Surana and Loghain Mac Tir, and our hounds Haakon and Champion."

Formally introduced, the pups broke ranks and went to sniff their new acquaintances with interest, particularly the larger Paragon. Laz Brosca's attention was on them, but Varric Tethras was standing stock still, staring first at Elilia, then at Loghain, mouth agape. Finally he recovered his aplomb, if not his suavity. "Well, this is…an unexpected honor. The Hero of Ferelden, and the Hero of the River Dane, slayers of the Archdemon. And, I suppose, rescuers of two lowly dwarves. What brings such august personages out on the Pilgrim's Path so early in the morning, if I might ask?"

"King's business," Loghain said repressively. Elilia softened it with a smile. _"Secret _business," she added.

"Oo, royal intrigue. My curiosity is piqued, but I'll be respectful of the very big man and the very large swords and not inquire further."

"If you're going to Denerim, the road we just passed was quite clear," Seanna said helpfully.

"Alas, Milady, we are _leaving_ Denerim. I thought perhaps we might feel a bit…safer…further inland. No offense and all, but your navy sucks. _One ship, _in the dockyards for repairs."

"A sodding _big _ship, though," Laz supplied.

"True. And the metal plating has a certain panache to it, though I find it hard to believe it'll float."

_"She floats,"_ Loghain said, with a tremendous scowl. "I wish we had a hundred more of her, but one was all I could ever talk the bloody bannorn into funding - and that only because I agreed to pay for her cladding out of my own damned pocket. I thought in time I'd be able to get more support for the idea, but then Maric…" He shook off the bad memory. "Let's just say I lost much of my backing for a proper Ferelden navy, and most of my enthusiasm as well."

"I defer to your greater knowledge, Messer. In any event, apart from the threat of seaborne annihilation from the grasping West, I decided that I don't care to spend any too much time in large cities just now. I recently spent some time as the 'guest' of one of the Chantry's fine Seekers, and while she turned out to be not such a bad lady after all, her hospitality was somewhat lacking. I'd prefer to keep my distance from large religious structures, for the time being."

"A Seeker? In Ferelden?" Seanna asked, eyes wide.

"Ah, no, actually, she found me in Ostwick. I came to Ferelden looking for an old friend, but I found Laz instead." The dog barked. "And Paragon."

He looked from Loghain to Elilia to Seanna and back again at each of them. "If we're headed in the same general direction," he began hopefully, "perhaps we could travel part of the way together? Danger is a lot less _dangerous_ in a large, heavily-armed group."

Loghain and Elilia looked at each other. Loghain grimaced and shrugged. _Your call. _Elilia turned to the dwarves and dog with a hopeful lift to her brows. "I don't suppose either of you knows anything about picking locks or disarming traps?"

Laz and Varric looked at each other and then back at Elilia. "We're the best," they said simultaneously.


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One: Campfire Alliance**

Loghain was not well pleased with their two new tagalongs, even though the woman's fine hound and the story of how she acquired it - if true - spoke well of her. It was not that he expected their presence, however long it lasted, would be any impediment to their ultimate mission - he wanted it kept from Chantry ears for as long as possible, but who less likely to run tattling to a Priest than a pair of surfacer dwarves who hadn't even managed to report on a dog-beater? They were even somewhat welcome additions, as long as they pulled their weight. The woman, Laz, was a fierce warrior with her dual waraxes, and the man Varric's fine crossbow was enough to compensate quite a bit for his slick character. Loghain wanted very much to figure out the engineering of that weapon. There was no bowstring, so presumably the bolts were loosed by a powerful spring mechanism. But setting up camp at the end of their first long day showed exactly why he was unhappy with the sudden growth of their party.

Laz and Varric had their own supplies, including tents and a few light provisions, so that was to the good, but when the tents were set up around their nicely crackling campfire that night, it was clear there was a slight discrepancy. Five people, four tents, one a little larger than the others. Loghain scowled and whispered harshly in Elilia's ear before the camp was fully laid out.

"You and Seanna should take the large tent. I'll sleep in Seanna's." Elilia gave him a cool look, grabbed his bedroll from the pile of their packs, and took it into the large tent to lay out beside her own. The dwarf Varric watched with amusement and interest and smirked at Loghain's forbidding glare.

"Hey, I'm not going to criticize the sleeping arrangements," the dwarf said, a laugh in his voice. "Kind of puts a nice new spin on the story of how she faced you down before the ruling class of the entire nation, usurped your power, spared your life, and won you to follow her against the Tainted god Urthemiel. Would make a bigger seller if one of you'd died in the slaying, but the payoff is all this winter romance in the face of an Orlesian invasion and the chance that it will all end with one of you mortally and nobly wounded and dying in your lover's arms, bathed in tears. People gobble that shit up."

"I will not be the subject of one of your vulgar romances, Dwarf," Loghain growled warningly. "Nor will Elilia."

"Vulgar! You wound me, Ser."

"Don't tempt me."

Elilia ducked back out of the tent. "Now now, gentlemen, let's not be discourteous," she said, more to Loghain than Varric. To the dwarf she said, "Ser Varric, I _do_ hope we can rely on your discretion, of course. This man and I are to be married, if all goes as hoped, but there has not been any formal announcement to that effect - and in our position, there are those who would use any hint of unbecoming conduct against us."

Loghain snorted. "The man is a writer of trashy codswallop and sensational literature. He _has_ no discretion." _And he's a foreigner, _he thought, but didn't say. He was trying mightily to set aside knee-jerk reactions to foreign accents in favor of strengthening his country. It had cost him a lot to suggest King Alistair call for the dissatisfied legions of other nations make a play for life in Ferelden, but the extra hands would be welcome provided they made good effort to live as citizens of their adoptive homeland. They'd get a lot of trash, doubtless, but even refuse had its uses, and bullshit could fertilize many crops.

Varric drew himself up to his full and, for a dwarf, quite impressive height. "I, Messer, am a gentleman, and like any true gentleman I am moved by the plea of a lovely lady. My Lady, I shall be the soul and beating heart of discretion and repeat nothing that I see or hear while we travel together." Then, eyes avid and speculating, he muttered under his breath, "Not without permission, anyway."

Loghain turned his attention back to the setting up of camp, resigned for the moment to the interested scrutiny of one of the wolves of the literary world. Mentally, he cursed their meeting with the dwarves. Not only did it put a significant damper on the possibility of any _real_…"activities" between himself and his intended while on the road, but there was no way in heaven he was going to allow Seanna to tutor him from the book of natural philosophy he'd brought along in front of this inquisitive crow and his so-called sister. He'd actually been looking forward to that, a little, but he wouldn't expose his ignorance in front of a supercilious foreigner, particularly one who styled himself as a man of letters.

The three of them had agreed between themselves to take turns with the cooking, and drew straws to see who would go first. The lot had fallen to Elilia, who grimaced and made a joke about her campfire cuisine, but Laz Brosca cheerily preempted their plans and offered to cook this first meal herself. Loghain hoped that did not mean they would be treated to the sort of recipes favored in Orzammar - nug pancakes and deepstalker steak - but evidently Laz had been a surfacer long enough to pick up something of Ferelden cookery for she combined her ingredients in the cookpot to end up with quite a competent lamb and pea stew. She even dished up portions for the mabaris, and Paragon dove into her meal with good doggy gusto. Champion and Haakon sniffed the dish suspiciously for a moment, unsure whether green things were really edible, but eventually they ate and seemed to enjoy it. Haakon finished his and went to beg more from his mistress, whining shamelessly until she gave in and shared some bits of lamb from her own bowl. Champion came to sit beside Loghain but did not deign to beg. She pretended full satisfaction and rested her head upon his knee. The results were the same - he sacrificed a couple of nice-sized chunks of tender meat from his own supper and she ate them from his hand with dignity and due appreciation. Puppies needed lots of food to grow big and stay healthy. He was not entirely happy to have them along on this journey as they were too young to pitch into battles as they'd done today, but they'd acquitted themselves well and he was proud. If they encountered more trouble along the way - which was a blue-blooded certainty - he'd remember to order Champion to stay back, and would tell Elilia to do the same for Haakon. Pups ought not to fight like dogs any more than boys ought to fight like men, and he remembered with bitterness his own very youthful introduction to the art of killing people. There had simply been no choice at the time.

He regarded the new mabari in their midst. Paragon was probably a bit more than a year old, and so it wasn't entirely too early for her to be trained to fight. She had that rangy, loose-limbed look adolescent hounds bore until they reached full maturity, but would undoubtedly be a fine dog when she had her growth. Her coat was a deep russet color, tinged at the edges with a hint of black that deepened into an outright splotch over her left eye and ear, and another on her back. She looked well-fed and well-loved, which was good, but it was equally clear to Loghain that she was training her people more than her people were training her. That was actually probably for the best as well. There were a lot of mabari in other lands these days, he'd heard, and it rankled him because there could be no question in his mind that those poor creatures were not being given their due respect. Paragon was smart enough to insist upon hers.

After the cleaning up was done, Loghain expected Seanna to beg a story of their new companion. She and Elilia made utter fools of themselves over that ridiculous book of theirs. Loghain had opened it up once, curious, and closed it again as the first thing his eye landed upon was a passage about breasts that "strained like wild horses to escape the corral of her bodice." He did not know what "lady" the passage referred to, but the mental image created by the phrasing was, to him, less titillating than disturbing. Other men might find it an attractive picture, but he preferred breasts that behaved as a cohesive unit with the lady they were attached to rather than as independent entities with will - and evidently _movement_ - of their own.

But to his surprise, the gentle little elf-mage instead asked about their presence in Ferelden. "You said you came to find an old friend," she said. "Who was that?"

The dwarf sighed. "Kireani Hawke," he said, a bit sadly. "Otherwise known as the Champion of Kirkwall. Circumstances beyond our control forced us to go our separate ways, but I thought perhaps to warn her about the Seekers. Her maternal line was Kirkwall nobility, but Kireani herself is an unrepentant Ferelden girl. I thought maybe she might have come home, but small though the country is it _is_ a bit like a good old needle-hunt through a very large haystack. Still, I met _two_ Ferelden Heroes, so it seems to me a good omen. Maybe I'll run across Hawke yet."

Loghain rather hoped he did. He'd heard something of the exploits of the Champion of Kirkwall, and it seemed to him a crime and a shame that such a person was not in Ferelden where she belonged, properly respected and rewarded for her services instead of set on the run like a common thief for saving the Kirkwall Circle from Annulment. Of course, some said she was involved in the plot that destroyed the Chantry and killed the Grand Cleric and her Priests, but with the way Loghain felt about that particular institution at the moment he could almost applaud that as well. Kireani Hawke _should_ return to her native land and make her skills useful to the King and Queen. She should never have left in the first place, but under the circumstances - threat of imminent destruction and all - he was willing to be forgiving. He was in a position to know all too much about unfortunate lapses in judgment.

Elilia asked the more burning question, which was how exactly two dwarves from different lands happened to find each other and decide they were siblings. Laz laughed and storyteller Varric allowed her to take lead.

"I was knocking heads for this mercenary company in Highever when Varric came in on the boat from Ostwick. I guess we noticed each other because of our hair - _redheads_ ain't too unusual among dwarves but bloody-blonds just ain't seen all that much. We talked, found out there was at least a nug's chance in a deepstalker nest that we were related, and the idea was so funny - me so bass ackward and Varric so fine and dandy - that we decided that even if it wasn't true it _oughta_ be, and that's that." She laughed again. "Varric was born on the Surface, so I guess he don't know he should kick dirt in my face and walk on my hands instead of bringing me into the family."

"I always wanted a sister," Varric said, comfortably enough. "I had an older brother, and that didn't work out too well - long story - so I thought I'd give a _female _sibling a chance to stab me in the back and strand me in the Deep Roads to die."

The storyteller turned his gaze upon Loghain, who blandly ate his stew and said nothing. "Your turn to ask a question, I believe, or aren't you playing?" Varric said.

Loghain affected surprise. "Is this a game? I was under the impression that the ladies were simply satisfying their curiosity. However it is, I have no questions."

"Well _I_ have one. How did you manage to get out of Orlais alive?"

"I walked, for the most part. Occasionally I bartered rides. How else should I have done? I'm not particularly fond of sea travel these days."

Varric chuckled, a rumble in his chest. "Come on, there's a story here and my gut says it's a good one. A lone Ferelden adrift in the middle of a nation that would have wanted your head _anyway, _and charged with 'sowing seeds of sedition in the lower classes?' You should be a particularly ugly decoration on the battlements of Val Royeaux right now, or at the very least rotting on a wheel. Instead you're here in native heather, nice and cozy with a woman who's probably going to have a hell of a lot of power in this country pretty soon, and you even led the Ferelden army against the Chevaliers in what can only be described as a _stunning _victory, even if I doubt it was a definitive one. Come on - I won't write it down or anything but you can't leave me _wondering_, it's bad for my constitution."

Elilia and Seanna both were looking at him now. "'Sowing seeds of sedition?'" Elilia asked. He sighed and shrugged.

"What did you expect of me? Orlais was plotting invasion and I hoped to distract them. I had no further place with the Wardens, felt I had no place at home…_most _people in Orlais are perfectly decent, lacking only the backbone to stand up and tell the greedy bastards ruling their lives that they won't take it anymore. But they've been under the yoke so long that many of them seem almost to _like_ it." He shook his head sadly. "I'd be there still, trying to foment something, threat of execution or no, but when I fell ill it suddenly occurred to me that dying in Orlais was the worst possible fate I could imagine for myself. I took the bloody Chantry's bloody expensive cure so I'd be sure not to spread my disease here at home, and I _walked. Out. Of bloody Orlais."_

"Just that easily?" Varric persisted. "I mean come on, they surely had a decent description of you. Seeing you for myself now, I have to say you're pretty damned distinct."

"I didn't say that I didn't leave _Bloody Orlais _a little bit bloodier than I found it," Loghain said, voice as dark as his lowering brow.

"For what reason on this good green earth," Elilia said, exasperated, "were you 'sowing seeds of sedition' in a quarantined Alienage? For I know you must surely have ventured to such a place, to catch Bloody Lung of _all _the damned diseases in Thedas."

He shifted uncomfortably and his pale face reddened. "I wasn't trying to foment revolution _there," _he mumbled. Elilia regarded him sharply for a time, then her face softened as she realized the truth he didn't want to talk about. He had tried, in his own clumsy way, to make some restitution and penance with the City Elves for what he'd done to the Alienage of Denerim, and had accidentally taken sick along with them. Like so many things that had happened during the Fifth Blight, his callous selling of Ferelden citizens, elven or not, into slavery was perplexing to her, to say the least. He'd had a reputation, before then, of being quite _high-minded _about elves, and fair-handed in his dealings with them. Elves living directly under his offices in Gwaren had been considered uncommonly lucky, given a latitude they simply did not enjoy in other places in Ferelden and even allowed to bear arms.

Even Loghain did not know precisely what had possessed him to sign that thrice-damned contract with that oily Tevinter, Caladrius. Howe had said it was only wise, of course, but when had he started accepting Howe's recommendations over his own reservations? Even _thinking_ about that consultation was difficult. In fact, memories from most of that year were oddly fuzzy and indistinct. Then there was the matter of the apostate sent by _someone_ to kill Arl Eamon. That apostate had claimed his employer was Loghain himself, and Elilia seemed to have believed him, but Loghain…did not remember any such thing at all. Killing Eamon would have been something he was quite happy to do, but while he rather reluctantly accepted the value of a good assassin it was a dodgy practice at best, prone to messy failure - as the resulting consequences of that assassination attempt had proven. He was morally certain that if he _had _set someone to kill the Arl he would have at the very _least _hired a proper professional and not trusted to the good faith of a runaway mage. It made no bloody _sense, _tactically. If he hadn't come to trust Elilia he could easily believe that she'd made the entire episode up just to bolster her claims against him - _and, _he had to admit, if he hadn't felt the effects of the ashes of Andraste himself he might _still _believe she'd made up much of it. He still suffered no pain in his joints, and felt younger and stronger than he had in many a moon.

Elilia clapped him on the back, companionably, and surreptitiously rubbed the back of his neck in more loverish fashion. He should be glad - and was, truly - that she had such capacity for forgiveness. He could only make an effort to be deserving of it. He favored her with a small smile, but from the corner of his eye he caught Varric's knowing smirk and much of his good feeling evaporated. Blasted interlopers. _Cock-blocking _interlopers. He gave the dwarf his best scowl. Evidently it was pretty good.

"Hot damn, if you could distill that look and put it in a bottle it would be the deadliest poison in Thedas," Varric said, mightily impressed.

* * *

**A/N: **Varric's arrival in my story only very shortly after the events in _DAII_ means that I'm compressing the timeline of canon quite a bit, but I refuse to feel guilty about it since canon timelines are frustrating creatures anyway. As to certain implications found herein: for an excellent take on this check out Arsinoe de Blassenville's stories; there were too damned many blood mages in Denerim for there not to be something very dark and nasty going on. Just Caladrius on his own was enough to make me think twice about just how much free will was involved in certain decisions. I was quite disappointed in-game by the fact that the nest of blood mages in the back alley were apparently completely without agenda given how well-funded they and all their high-priced mercenaries were, and its patently ridiculous to believe it. Then, too, sending Jowan to kill Arl Eamon doesn't make much sense to me. Meddle with templars and piss the Chantry off, send someone you don't know to perform an assassination that is political suicide (at the very least) if it fails - which, with a rank amateur, is almost _assured - _and then keep the head templar alive to tell the tale. If it wasn't blood mages messing with minds then I think it was Arl Howe looking to set up a backup plan in case he needed blackmail material against Loghain or something he could use to get rid of him if he became uncooperative. The Circle shields mages from the outside world as much as possible, it seems, so to me it seems probable enough that Jowan might have been bamboozled into thinking he was speaking to Loghain himself when it was really Howe - "portraits" aren't always labeled, after all.


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **Takes place ten years or more after the events of _Dragon Age: Origins_, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **Upon rereading, chapter twenty-one may have been just a bit too brief and…oogy. I don't mind short chapters when they _work_ but that one did not, as far as I'm concerned. I had great difficulty writing it and was somewhat unwell besides (that's the last time I challenge Oghren to a pickle juice-drinking competition). I endeavor to do better! For the nonce we have this, which could very easily have been part of the last chapter had I been in my right (or write) mind.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Reflection**

Loghain lay awake late into the night, listening to the night sounds of wind rustling the leaves of a nearby stand of birches and the endless chirp of night peepers and crickets. Beside him, laying close but not nearly close enough, Elilia slept deeply, untroubled by the frightful dreams that Wardens had, even when there was no Blight. Thank the Maker the ashes had worked to cure her. He'd done it because Ferelden needed her, not because she'd wanted to be free of her burden, but he was glad that she'd set aside her anger and allowed herself to be glad of her freedom. She would not suffer the gruesome fate of the Wardens when the Taint overpowered them, she would not go to the Deep Roads for her Calling only, perhaps, to be forced into the service of the Darkspawn as a mindless abomination of womankind to produce innumerable filthy offspring to bolster their wretched numbers. Best of all, he thought it quite likely that any infertility the Taint had given her must be expunged. If she could refrain from pushing her body to such extremes of physical exertion that she could not have her natural monthly courses, then she might yet bear a child. The thought of starting a new family at the age of sixty-plus was daunting in the extreme, but he was not a man to back down from a challenge. Perhaps he might, in his dotage, have at last the wisdom to avoid a few of the many mistakes he'd made the first time around. If Arl Wulffe, of all people, could manage then so could he.

His fingers twitched and he wished absently for a cigarette. He'd picked up the habit during the Restoration, for him a far more trying time than the rebellion itself, and it had gotten rather severe during his early days as Teyrn of Gwaren, but the gentle disapproval of his wife Celia, and later the sharper admonitions of Anora, had forced him to lay the vice by. The cigarette that morning had been his first in a good long while, and he still wasn't exactly sure why he'd felt compelled to cadge a smoke when he saw the tobacco pouch on the guardsman's belt. Too much worry, he supposed. Too much strain. He had a lot invested in this little expedition, not coin of the realm but the more valuable coin of hope, and that was a money he did not often allow himself to spend.

Oh, but there was a far better cure for his stress than a pinch of the best Highever Broadleaf, if he could but take advantage of it, a cure that sprang also from the fine soil of Highever near the high Cliffs of Conobar. He turned onto his side and watched her for a time in silence. Her face was naked of cosmetics and looked to his eyes almost painfully young with its few lines smoothed out by dreamless sleep. She looked very much like that willful sixteen year-old who first tattooed her face in a bold if misguided move to avoid an unpleasant marriage contract. Sometimes it was hard to believe she was the daughter of an ancient line of Ferelden nobility. She had the guts, constitution, and _attitude _of a particularly gritty breed of freeholder - of the type of which Loghain himself was a proud scion.

He reached out and ran a light hand down her outflung arm. The strong muscles tensed under his fingers, reflexively, but she did not waken. He wondered at the strange twists fate held for hapless mortals. His first love, Rowan Guerrin, betrothed of Maric and intended Queen, had been a powerful warrior woman. His wife had been as _unlike_ her as it was possible to find, small and soft and undemanding, a starstruck peasant girl who never dreamed of challenging him on anything, though in time she found ways of working him around to her will - a will far stronger than her meek ways suggested. She had been offered to him in marriage during the latter days of the Rebellion, after the Battle of River Dane, when Maric had at last the full support of all his rightful subjects and the nobles who were newest on the field looked with alarm upon the brash farmer's son who appeared to be making a bold move for the power they considered theirs by Divine Right. Maric begged the proposal to Loghain himself, to allay the qualms of those who feared he would marry into their families and so seize noble title for himself. The joke was on them, however, as it was only a handful of years before Maric raised him above all of them with the exception of Bryce Cousland. Very few of them found it remotely funny.

He hadn't known Celia two hours before they were married by the Revered Mother in the Gwaren Chantry, but he set himself to love her the best he could regardless. He'd found her faintly alarming, actually, so pretty and pale, like a flower. He wasn't particularly adept with flowers. It was some years until Anora was born, and the addition of a tiny and utterly helpless little girl nearly frightened him away completely. He'd missed out on a lot of her earliest years, even the ones he spent in Gwaren. He regretted that very much. He'd loved them both, too strongly, perhaps, to feel that he should inflict his awkward and unworthy presence on them. Time lost that he could never recover. No use sighing over it now.

And now here he was, in the winter of his days, snow on the mountain, and life's wheel had rolled around to the place where he'd begun, with a high-born woman beautiful in her strength and how much of herself she was willing to sacrifice for her ideals, a woman unafraid to meet him toe-to-toe and stand him down on the battlefield he'd had mastery of for the better part of his life. She was Rowan and she was _more _than Rowan, she was _Elilia_ and her like had never been seen before in Thedas. He was still shocked and somewhat appalled that she would waste herself on him, but he certainly wasn't going to look a gift Warden in the mouth, even though he found that mouth quite appealing.

He felt his blood stirring restlessly and shifted position. Dislodged from a springy curl of hair, the amulet he wore slid across his chest to his shoulder. He'd never been one for jewelry, even of the enchanted sort most warriors throughout Thedas made part of their basic equipment. It was an irritant, always in the way. But the little silverite mirror was different somehow. He was perfectly aware that the spirit he saw in the temple that day was _not _his mother, but it had aped her so well he wasn't sure that it made a difference. He didn't know if the amulet had any enchantments upon it, though it seemed reasonable to suppose it did, but whether there was any tangible benefit to wearing it or not, he felt protected by it. Shielded from his own darker nature, if only by the reminder it gave him of the spirit's kind words to him. So he would attempt to set aside some of his burden of guilt, enough so that he could do his job effectively at least, and he would not consider himself a failure if he could not fix everything that was wrong in Ferelden. He would be damned if he would not _try, _however.

It had not escaped his attention that Elilia wore an identical amulet. She had taken off the little crystal vial of blood that was her Warden's Oath and laid it in an ornately-carved box of fine greenstone with a sentimental sigh, but snapped the lid shut with great finality. The silverite mirror rested on her clavicle above the longer chain and larger pendant that had been her gift from Seanna back in Denerim. Loghain wondered what the Gauntlet had shown her, what truths about herself she'd had to face. He would never ask, though. Some things were too intimate even for lovers to speak of.

Careful not to wake her, he gathered her into his arms and close to his body. Her heat and scent were both tantalizing and intoxicating, as was her firm, solid flesh. She was soft in only one place, but Maker how soft she was. He'd once overheard a pair of Antivan diplomats discussing the various merits and flaws of Ferelden in their native tongue, unaware that he understood enough of their greasy talk to know the gist of their words, and one of them had said to the other how nowhere else in Thedas were the women blessed with such fine breasts. They seemed to feel this was the major selling point for the country. Elilia certainly had a beautiful bust, neither too large nor too small but perfectly balanced to her broad square shoulders and powerful physique. He groaned softly into her hair, cursing again the fate that had saddled them with a pair of unknown companions who could not be trusted to be discrete. It was ludicrous, the effect she had on him. He was no longer a headstrong boy but a man of advanced years, and the fire in his gut ought by now to be mere embers, capable of warming but not much more. She had a way of stoking them back into a merry blaze without effort.

Perhaps she sensed his increasing ardor, or perhaps she was being poked too roughly in too sensitive a place, but she stirred and opened sleepy eyes. She blinked at him several times, then smiled and snuggled closer. "This is a nice way to sleep," she said.

"I wouldn't know," Loghain said, feelingly. She laughed at him.

"Poor man. Are you absolutely sure we can't…?" She waggled her eyebrows at him. "We could be very _quiet _about it."

"Not quiet _enough," _he groaned. "The last thing we need is that bawdy dwarf telling tales out of school - and embellishing them, like as not, with his purple prose."

"It is quite the coincidence that we should meet up with the author of the book Seanna and I have been reading," Elilia said.

"I don't believe in coincidence," Loghain replied, glowering.

"Oh come, you don't mean to say you think this meeting was planned? No one knew of our intentions but the King and Queen."

"Others knew. You can't keep secrets in a palace, servants see and hear everything and their tongues are easily loosened with coin. I certainly find it interesting that he was aware I was a wanted man in Orlais. No one in Ferelden seemed to know about it."

Elilia laughed. "Everyone in Ferelden would simply take it as a matter of course, so it wouldn't be considered _news. _He's not an Orlesian spy, Loghain. I truly do not think they employ dwarven bards."

"He's _obviously_ a bard, Elilia. Whether he is an _enemy _bard or merely an opportunist remains to be seen, and I shall be keeping a very close eye on him. Him and that 'sister' of his. She looks like the type who is quite familiar with the art of cutting throats."

"Loghain, if she stood on Varric's shoulders she still couldn't reach to cut your throat. _Or_ mine."

"She could while we're lying here asleep. Don't laugh, Elilia. Careless trust is the greatest danger of them all."

She sighed. "Fine, fine. _You_ worry about the big bad dwarves and I'll worry about something a little closer to home."

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what it was she intended to worry about when her hand suddenly slipped down his body and _showed_ him, and his jaws snapped shut with a painful click of teeth on teeth. Clever fingers did for him what he'd been too uptight to do for her, and his resistance melted beneath her ministrations. Be damned to the dwarves. If the blasted fool put one word to paper Loghain would have his tongue for a blotter before the ink could dry.

He slept at last, and it was Elilia's turn to lay wakeful, watching. Even asleep, Loghain's face bore always that sharp, suspicious nature. Perhaps it was only the way his features were arranged, with a sloping brow over quite an heroic nose (or beak, if one were to draw the obvious parallels between his appearance and that of a large bird of prey) but rather thin cheeks and a relatively narrow jaw. But no, even his sharp pointed face could not explain all the bristling aura he retained even in his sleep. Likely enough the Fade demons sent him dreams of assassins and invasion.

He was a skilled lover. That did not mean he was an _uninhibited_ one of course, in fact he was easily taken off-guard by a bold move. If she'd known that in years gone by it would have made her dual at the Landsmeet a thousand times easier - although she granted that it would have been difficult to grab his manhood through plate armor. In any event he was quite adept at wringing a few shrieks of his name out of her, which was very new to her. She came to him on the eve of battle that night not a _virgin_ but certainly lacking experience, particularly of the pleasurable kind. She had not, as was rumored, had relations with any of the companions who followed her as she gathered allies against the Blight, but there had been others, experiments all. There'd even been a woman, a shrewd Rivaini sea captain who'd traded sex for secrets. Her first had been Bann Loren's son, Dairren.

Poor Dairren, so eager to please. He'd had less interest in _her _than in her status, by quite a stretch, but he'd labored gamely. Curiosity and lack of better opportunity drove her to invite him to her rooms. Treachery and ill-fortune had made it the very night her home was raided, and Dairren was killed even before she'd known what was going on. That certainly wasn't something she was likely to talk about with Loghain - perhaps less so even than the incident of the lady pirate.

She snuggled into his shoulder and toyed with the silverite amulet at his throat. Another experience they had in common, one that she thought he might well agree with her was more difficult than many of the battles they'd faced. That vision had staggered him, in a way she'd never expected to see him knocked off-balance. She hoped he'd managed to find a bit of peace in it as well as the pain.

She caught herself in a gaping yawn, stretched languidly, and draped herself across his body to sleep. The warmth of his body had a deliciously soporific effect, and despite the fact that he'd been tromping around all day in heavy leather armor and hadn't been able to properly bathe he didn't smell all that unpleasant, either. Of course, the love they'd made had its own unique scent and that overlay much. Cozy and satisfied, Elilia slept.

* * *

**A/N:** On the touched-upon subject of the blood mage coven, I'm still not entirely sure how much influence I intend to determine they had, or whether it should make any difference at all in a story set so much later on. I do believe that Caladrius at the very least would have done something to ensure cooperation even if his "clients" seemed fairly willing, and it would have been very easy to obtain blood from Loghain as he was leading numerous sorties against dissenting nobles evidently from the vanguard and would certainly have taken wounds from time to time. I don't even know yet whether the back-alley coven was part of the larger slaver conspiracy or another, unrelated group of maleficarum, possibly even sent by Orlais to surreptitiously create chaos amongst the rulers of the country. I wouldn't at all mind hearing some views on this, whether or not it ultimately works into my tale. It could be that there's still an extant phylactery of Loghain's blood labeled on a shelf somewhere in Tevinter, awaiting further use - which they might have for it if he becomes Elilia's Teyrn-Consort - or even in a repository somewhere in Orlais, which has a nice sound of ringing doom to it.


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Dog Lord**

In the morning Seanna made porridge and coffee on the breakfast fire and she and the dwarves spoke of inconsequentials while Loghain and Elilia went about their own morning business carefully uncommunicative. Elilia steeped several flowers of Andraste's Grace in her tin mug without comment, secure in the knowledge that few were aware of the contraceptive properties of the little white flower. She had no idea whether she was able to become pregnant or not, but she was taking no chances on a child born out of wedlock or scandalously early. In truth she didn't particularly like the idea of becoming a mother at all, but with Fergus seemingly resolved to remain in mourning for the rest of his life she knew that it might now be her duty to provide an heir to the Highever teyrnir if she could.

Loghain came back from washing up at the nearby brook and accepted with muttered thanks the mug of coffee Seanna handed him. He sat down cross-legged next to Elilia and briefly touched the careless tail of her hair, far more affection than she would have expected him to demonstrate in the open, or even just in front of Seanna. Varric saw and smirked knowingly.

"It's odd, how close Ferelden is to Kirkwall and yet how very different everything is here," he said, innocently. "Even the animals are different. I heard some odd bird calls last night, and I was wondering if you could help me identify them. They sounded like this: " And he replicated rather too convincingly the cries of a woman in orgasm. Elilia's face reddened and Laz elbowed Varric in the ribs hard enough to knock him over.

She said, "So they had a tumble, so what? I'd roll the big guy myself if he wasn't spoken for." Loghain choked on his coffee and Seanna had to slap him hard on the back. Varric picked himself up off the ground and dusted off his coat with no apparent rancor.

"Hey, I'm sorry - I'm just a born tease, is all. Actually I think the two of 'em make kind of a cute couple, and evidently _something _they're doing is working. They've got that whole matched-opposites thing going on, like night and day or beauty and the beast."

Elilia made a face at him. "Are you calling me ugly?" Varric burst out laughing.

"My lady, a man would have to be stone-blind as well as stupid to imply anything of the kind." He gestured to Laz. "Let's clean up, Spunky, and get our gear packed away. I'm sure they'll want to get underway soon, and I don't want to hold them up seeing as how they've been so kind as to let us join them." The dwarves sprang into action and began to strike their part of camp. Varric whispered an aside to Laz pitched just loud enough for everyone else to hear.

"Besides, I need to start making good before the _Bull charges."_

Elilia shot a look at Loghain and he did actually seem to be just short of snorting and pawing the earth.

Loghain tossed a handful of dried beef bits to Champion and said, tightly, "Let's get moving."

Elilia began packing and Seanna choked out the fire with an icy blast of winter's grasp. As the strongest of them, Loghain was the one with the dubious honor of being weighted down heaviest with cookpot and tent poles. At least Elilia _claimed_ he was the strongest. As he shifted the straps of his pack until the small cast-iron pot didn't dig quite so painfully into his kidneys he sized her up and thought she had to be at _least _as strong as he was, but when he pointed that fact out to her she batted her eyelashes and played female, which made him grin despite himself. As long as he still had easy access to his sword and shield he supposed he didn't honestly mind if she made him carry the whole camp outfit.

"I'll take point and keep an eye out for traps in our path," Laz offered. Paragon barked. "Me and Paragon will, I mean."

"Me and Bianca will hang back with Birdie and keep an eye rearward," he said, with an affectionate pat for the stock of his crossbow. Loghain didn't actually like the idea of keeping his back to the man, but at the rear was where he would usually put archers and mages so it was hard to argue the point. Seanna - "Birdie," evidently, since the man seemed unable to call anyone but his weapon by their proper name - would be there to keep an eye on him and Loghain whispered to her a warning that she accepted with a nod. She didn't believe for a moment that the funny dwarf meant them any harm, but if he tried anything foolish she knew a few spells that would change his mind pretty quickly, naturally resistant or not. A crushing prison of telekinetic magic would knock the blocks out from under him in a heartbeat.

* * *

**MEANWHILE, IN DENERIM**

The ship _Our Lady Grace _pulled into port after a round-trip journey of a month and four days. She sailed in from Kirkwall, where she'd stopped to gather Ferelden repatriates and new immigrants alike. Grateful to leave the cramped and odoriferous interior of the ship, the exhausted and in many cases dreadfully seasick passengers pushed and shoved through the gangway with a complete and utter disregard for order. The last two passengers were more decorous, and disembarked with the straight spines and stalwart pride of soldiers or well-disciplined city guards. The woman eyed the quays with interest, noting the changes since the last time she'd been in Ferelden's capital. The rickety and rather random docks of days past were long gone, replaced by solid construction and a good sense of organization. She wondered if the rest of the city had benefited similarly in its reconstruction.

She looked at her husband, who was eyeing his new home with some reservation. "Having second thoughts?" she asked. He looked back at her and smiled.

"As long as my mother and sisters live in the Free Marches I'll always have thoughts of them and Kirkwall as well, but my home is with you, my love."

Her green eyes laughed at him as she smiled back with every ounce of the love he beamed at her. "I'm glad. Ferelden isn't what you're used to, but it is a fine land. I spend a good long time kicking myself for leaving it, but I can't regret it any longer. I am glad to be back, though. A chance to help protect her now as penance for deserting her during the Blight."

Donnic squeezed her hand. "It will be well, love. The criers all say that with the Hero of Ferelden bringing in allies and Loghain himself leading the army the Orlesians got their asses handed to them at Sulcher."

Aveline's smile faltered and she shook her head. "I hope it was enough, but though I'm happy for the victory I can hardly believe they'd ever trust _Loghain Mac Tir _with Ferelden's well-being again."

Donnic brushed back a stray lock of her carrot-orange hair. "Maybe this is _his_ penance, love. Whatever he did and whatever his reasons, he followed the Warden into battle against the Archdemon. I don't think he must have _meant_ to turn against his own country."

She tried for a smile but failed. "It wasn't the horror of the Darkspawn that drove me to desert, you know. It was that abandonment, knowing that our own general turned his back on us and left us to die. I was cut adrift completely, like I'd imagine someone would feel at the end of the bloody world. If _Loghain _wouldn't stand for us and see us through, it seemed to me Ferelden was doomed. Perhaps it was foolish and weak of me to succumb to such feelings, but once Wesley was gone I had nothing else at all to cling to."

"This is a different situation, love. The Darkspawn were an Enemy Unknown, and it is unfortunate but your strategies simply weren't effective against them. Loghain must have hoped to save what he could, not knowing that a Blight truly could not be defeated without Grey Wardens. Once he understood that, he stood with them. If they had been more forthcoming with him from the beginning, instead of pandering to the late King, perhaps much would have been altered. Now the enemy are not monsters but men, and I'm sure Loghain is well prepared to defend the nation against them. And our blades will play their part as well. We'll settle the Orlesians, and then we'll make this place our home."

* * *

Loghain didn't know who had asked, but Laz Brosca was detailing the story of her escape from Orzammar, which he was somewhat surprised to realize actually _had been _an escape, and rather a narrow one.

"So Leske says to me, 'You've been telling me for years that you're the baddest thing with a blade…well, Everd's armor is right over there, and you're just about the same size.' Oh, I was tempted. You can't believe how tempted I was - and not for bloody Beraht, neither, but just to see the look on all their noble nug-humping faces when a _brand_ took down their best men. But I was too scared for what might happen to Rica - that's my sister, my I-can-prove-it sister - so I scarpered. I figured the best way to make sure we were all safe was to slice Beraht into little tiny pieces, so I broke into his house and killed him. Rica turned out okay, I guess - she ended up in the Royal Palace, with a bellyful of King Behlen's son, so she and ma are well taken care of. Leske though, I don't know what happened to that poor duster. Before I slipped out the front gates for good I found out that he got his pal Darran to stand as Everd, and they got caught. If the guards didn't kill him, I guess Jarvia probably did."

"I found a dwarf in Jarvia's dungeons when I was cleaning out the Carta," Elilia said. "Two of them, actually, though only one was still alive. I let him out. He said something about being locked up because of a bet, but I don't know if he was your friend or not."

Laz sighed, then smiled brightly. "I would say it was too much to hope for, but I'm an optimistic duster so I choose to believe that it was. And I also choose to believe that he ran straight to the Diamond Quarter and Rica smuggled him into the palace as her 'cousin.' So now Leske's livin' the good life and drinkin' the good stuff."

"Excuse me, but do I understand you to say that you broke into this man Beraht's house and summarily _murdered _him?" Loghain asked.

"Damn straight, salroka. You surfacers have a phrase to describe it, I think you call it 'doing the world a favor.'"

"This Beraht, he was a smuggler, then?"

"More than that. If there was something dirty going on in Dust Town, Beraht was at the bottom of it. He was the Carta's boss before Jarvia. She was his right-hand woman, the hand that was down his pants. I'd a' been glad to kill her, too, but she wasn't there. You ever been to Orzammar?"

"Some years ago, on Wardens' business with Elilia. We didn't stay long, however. We had a Blight to attend to."

"And I suppose you never went to Dust Town?"

"No."

"Then maybe you don't know that the only 'honest' work for a duster like me is cleaning trash middens or panhandling, and those jobs pay absolutely dick. Your other options are to work as some type of whore or bust heads for the Carta - those jobs _also_ pay absolutely dick, but you're less likely to starve to death or have your throat slit. My big sis was a high-end hooker - a _noble hunter_, same diff, 'cept the lucky ones end up moved to a caste if they manage to give some ass-wagon a son - and I was one of Beraht's meat-head musclemen."

"And your mother, I take it, was one of the 'unlucky' noble hunters?"

"That's what she says, but its actually pretty hard for me to imagine that she ever had the looks or the class to make it working the Diamond Quarter. But what do I know? Rica's looks had to come from somewhere, and ma could maybe be really classy when she's sober. I wouldn't know."

Loghain shook his head. "I oughtn't to say this, but I actually do feel rather badly for y - "

A sudden, sharp pain in his neck, a quick fading of consciousness. He heard Champion bark urgently and just had time for a single thought before he crumpled to the ground. _I knew we shouldn't have trusted these damned dwarves._

* * *

Champion could have kicked herself, if she were capable of doing so. The Bad People were upon them before she knew they were even there, wielding blowguns that shot darts of smelly sleep-juice with unerring aim into the necks of her Master and his people. They'd covered their Human scent with the thick aroma of doe urine, and if she'd been half as smart as she'd thought herself she would have alerted to the unnatural level of deer smell in the air. There was no time to launch a counter-offensive. She had to think on her paws.

With a brief doggy prayer that her Master would understand what she was doing and forgive her, she barked a command at the others. Paragon, older, believing herself wiser than a pup like Champion, did not want to obey, but one of the Bad People kicked her very hard in the face, making her yelp. Dazed, she sat back on her haunches for a moment and Champion took the opportunity to bite her sharply on the shoulder. No longer in a position to hold out, Paragon followed the pups into the tree cover. Abandoning their Masters went against every instinct in their nature, but Champion hoped she was being Clever. Clever was good.

They watched from the bushes as the Bad People stripped their Humans of the weapons they carried and bound them up hand and foot. They also put a gag in the mouth of the little one with the Fade smell about her. Champion had to sit on Haakon and put her front legs across his muzzle to keep him from whining and barking and chasing after when the Bad People loaded his mistress into the back of a horse-drawn cart another group of them brought up from further down the road. She felt very much like doing those things herself when her own Man was piled in next to her, with much grunting and swearing from the Bad People who had to wrangle his bulk.

"_Sacre merde," _she heard one of the Bad People say. "This is a big sonofabitch, no?"

"The Queen's _pere," _another said. "Be careful with him, the Empress wants him alive - for now."

A third broke in. "You're not paid to talk! _Allonz y!"_

"What do we do with the dwarves and the elf girl?" one of them asked.

"Bring them along. As soft-hearted as the King is known to be, they may be of some value alive - and even if not, they would fetch a fine price from the Tevinters, the apostate especially."

"Should we track down the dogs?" a Bad Man said, sounding worried. "They might sound an alarm."

The loud-voiced leader laughed. "They ran. Mabari do not run from a fight. Evidently they were not properly bonded. We have what we came for - let us depart. I cannot shake the dirt of this place off my boots soon enough."

They finished piling up the fallen people and spread the hay that filled the cart over them carefully, so that it appeared to be just another farm wagon.

"We must hurry now, so that we can make camp before they awaken," the loud-voiced leader said. "We cannot be too cautious."

The dogs watched anxiously as the Bad People gave the order and the horse plodded on. Champion whined to Haakon, faster and stealthier than she or Paragon, and her brother wagged his stump of a tail in understanding. He raced off through the woods, keeping the cart in sight and making no noise, while Champion and Paragon followed at a more cautious distance. Eventually the Bad People turned off the well-traveled road for a rutted and overgrown track that saw little use. Some time later they stopped.

"Make camp. The drugs will wear off soon so they must be securely bound. Lash them to poles and make sure they're out of reach of each other. Give the mage another dose - we don't want her waking up and causing havoc."

Champion nearly forgot herself when her Master, looking so pale and lifeless that it frightened her, was unloaded from the wagon and tied to a sturdy wooden stake set into the earth. As one of the Bad People finished binding him he awoke - a scarce heartbeat between lolling dead and violently alive - and he strained against his bonds with some little effect. Startled, the Bad Man leapt back. If he had not been drugged he might have broken free, but the traces still in his system weakened him and the Master slumped back, exhausted. The Bad People laughed uproariously and Champion growled quietly to herself.

The dogs watched impatiently as the Bad People went about their business. Eventually they had their tents up and their fires lit, and Champion saw them break out several bottles. Her tail began to wag at the sight - she knew that when men drank deeply of such bottles they became slow and stupid. Luck was with them. The Bad People cooked themselves a heavy dinner - offering not so much as a scrap to the Master and his people, Champion was outraged to see - and drank a great deal of wine, and went to their bedrolls posting only a single guard already more than half asleep. Champion gave silent orders to the other pups and after Haakon had rolled in enough mud to hide his pale coat they bellied into the camp, keeping to the shadows as best they could. Haakon and Paragon crept to the wagon and burrowed through the hay to the cache of their people's weapons. Champion trusted in her dark coat to hide her well and stalked cautiously up behind the pole to which her Master was staked. She put her cold, wet nose in the palm of his hand momentarily and she felt his surprise, but he was Clever and made no sound. She applied her sharp teeth to his tough bonds and in a few moments his hands were free. Then she went to the wagon herself and returned to him with his sword clamped in her strong jaws. He did not take the time to praise her - he took the blade and sliced through the ropes at his ankles, then rolled quickly to his feet and cut the throat of the one sleepy guard before he could react. In moments he had the rest of his People freed, except for the little Fade-smelling one who was still heavily drugged and asleep. With their weapons and the element of surprise, Champion's pack rapidly overtook their foolishly complacent captors.

"Take one alive," the Master growled to his pack. "I want to know their plans."

"This one's alive," the Short Man said. "Out cold, but alive."

"Bind him, and someone see if you can find some sort of antidote for poor Seanna."

Haakon's mistress knelt down beside her dog and pointed out the mud caking his white fur. "I've never heard of anything like this. Do you think our mabari actually…formulated a _strategy?" _The Short Woman gave Paragon pats and much praise, but the Master knew who to thank for his rescue. He knelt down and scratched Champion's ears.

"Good girl, Champion," he said. "Clever dog."

Champion panted modestly, but she knew she deserved his praise. She was indeed a very Clever Dog.


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Torture**

"I think I found something - maybe it's a counter to the drugs they used?"

"Put that down, woman, that's a bottle of deer piss."

"Ew. Why in the name of the great sodding ancestors would they have a bottle of _deer piss _in their supplies?"

"I suspect they used it to keep the dogs from smelling them. Hunters douse themselves with it, sometimes, to keep their prey from noticing their presence and to attract bucks."

"Ugh. That's…really gross. Glad we never had to do things like that to catch nugs or deepstalkers."

"I think this is the stuff they used on Birdie," Varric said. He tossed Loghain a small vial. "They've sure got plenty of it - there's ten more bottles here. Bet they planned on keeping us drugged all the way to Val Royeaux. I don't think there's an antidote - we're just going to have to wait for it to wear off I guess."

"Hey, our 'new friend' seems to be waking up," Elilia said.

"Good. Let's see what he has to say for himself."

The surviving attacker was clearly frightened to come to bound hand and foot, face-to-face with his former prey, but he made a brave show of defiance.

Loghain knelt down before him. "So what was the plan, eh? Some sort of ransom situation, or was the Empress thinking more along the lines of a public execution? That's probably what _I_ would do, in her situation. Having the Hero of Ferelden drawn and quartered before a crowd of thousands in Val Royeaux would demoralize our men pretty badly."

The Orlesian snarled in his native tongue, the gist of which was a demand that Loghain perform an impossible and highly unnatural act upon himself, and spit in his face. Loghain calmly wiped away the spittle, drew back and punched the man. The dull crunch of breaking cartilage made Varric wince.

"Don't think for a moment that your continued existence is something I consider _necessary," _Loghain said, still perfectly calm. "You were sent here by the bloody Empress, that's all I really need to know. But your death could be a lot less painful and prolonged if you'd cooperate just enough to clarify a few non-essential details."

Blood streamed from the man's broken nose. Still he snarled curses in Orlesian.

Loghain nodded at Elilia. "Loose one of his arms for me, won't you please?"

She untied one of the man's wrists and Loghain took the man's arm in both hands and held it out straight. "Tell me what your plans were."

"Go fuck yourself, Ferelden Dog Lord."

"Believe it or not, I understood you well enough when you said it in Orlesian," Loghain said. "Let's see if we can't get you to say something a little more useful now."

Almost gently, he rotated the man's arm to its furthest range and then paused a moment, just long enough to hold the man's gaze with his own steady, icy blue eyes. Then he ratcheted the arm quite sharply, yanking the shoulder joint out of socket. The Orlesian screamed in agony. Varric paled noticeably.

"Hey, not to tell you your business or anything, but you do know you catch more flies with honey, right?" the dwarf said uncomfortably.

"Ferelden has been using honey-coated diplomacy with the damned Orlesians since we kicked them out of here forty-odd years ago. They've shown they prefer the taste of blood." Loghain returned his attention to their captive. "Ready to talk, yet?"

White-faced, sweating, trembling with fear and pain, the Orlesian was still defiant. "Fuck you, Ferelden."

"Pity." Loghain slammed a hard hand into the man's elbow, shattering it, and Varric turned away from the sight, pale and nauseated. Once he could speak without being drowned out by the Orlesian's howls of pain Loghain continued, in that same perfectly calm, reasonable tone he'd used throughout. "You're rather a slim-built man. I daresay it wouldn't be _terribly_ difficult for me to rip your arm clean off at the shoulder, and I could then use it to beat you to death. I confess its an attractive idea. But I'm a patient man, and you've got three limbs remaining. I can keep dislocating your joints and breaking your bones until you say something sensible or expire from the violation, whichever comes first. I have some experience with this so believe me when I tell you, Ser, that it takes a _long time _to die this way. Be a smart lad, and just tell me what I want to know. I won't make you suffer one moment longer than you _make_ me make you suffer."

"I…I'll tell you," the Orlesian sobbed out. "I'll tell you everything - _please."_

"Good man. On your time."

It took a bit for the man to choke down his pain enough to speak. "We were…to take you to Jader. There we were to send word to your King that we were holding the Queen's father and the Hero of Ferelden hostage."

"And what, exactly, was _that_ meant to accomplish?"

The man shook his head. "We were to demand that your King allow our legions within your borders for pacification. Ferelden would become a protectorate of the Empire but could keep its government, with limitations. We were told not to expect our demands to be met, however."

"So then the plan was to…?"

"Kill you both, defile the bodies, and return them to Denerim to illustrate the wages of Ferelden's arrogance in defying your rightful sovereign."

"Hmph. A decent plan, as far as it goes. Do you know anything more about the Empress' plans?"

The man shook his head again. "We were given a target and a rough idea of what to do when we had you, nothing more. We didn't even know how we were going to get our hands on you until we discovered that you were leaving Denerim unaccompanied by guards. We were after _you_ - the Hero of Ferelden was an unexpected bonus."

"Very well." Loghain reached for the knife he had replaced in his boot.

"Wait! Wait! I know something more! A rumor only, but something you would do well to hear!" Loghain's hand stopped on its way and hovered in the air near the boot strapping expectantly. "What I have to say will be of great value to you, if it is true. When I tell you, will you let me go?"

"You will go in peace."

The man licked his bloodless lips and eyed the hand that still hovered near the hilt of the half-hidden blade. His eyes flicked back and forth from hand to face several times as he spoke. "The Empress, she secretly employs many agents. Bards, you would call them, although many are not truly of that ilk. Many of these agents, in fact, are apostates. Some years back, even before your Blight, the Empress supposedly installed a good number of her apostates in your capital to work a certain, shall we say, _chaos_ amongst your nobility. They used blood magic to do it."

Elilia spoke up. "We wiped out rather a large nest of blood mages in the back alleys of Denerim, Loghain, if you recall."

The Orlesian nodded. "It is rumored those were they. The Empress was quite distressed when they were reported dead - mostly because she still had to pay the mercenary companies she hired their guards from, it is said."

"That was long ago, and those mages are dead," Loghain said. "How is it you think this information is of value to me now?"

"Ah but you see, before the Blight, and even during, it was very difficult or even impossible, they say, to get any significant amount of blood from the targeted nobles, so the magic the mages could work secretly was quite limited. But there was _one_ Ferelden nobleman who bled _frequently _for his country, and it was simplicity itself to pay unscrupulous Healers to fill a vial or two in exchange for a few gold sovereigns. It is rumored that even before the Blight the Empress kept a vial of his blood in a golden stand upon her vanity table, as a trophy."

Elilia's blanched face and terrified eyes gave testament to the fact she fully understood what their informant was implying. Loghain understood, as well, but kept his reaction carefully schooled.

"And this nobleman was…?"

"It was you, Lord Loghain," the Orlesian said. "It was you. I do not know how much influence the maleficarum exerted upon you, but it is sure they had much. Killing the mages put a halt upon the Empress' immediate plans, but it is rumored that there are still phylacteries of your blood kept safe in many places around the Empire - and further still. Some say she made quite a profit selling a vial or two to interested parties in other lands, but I am not so sure of that myself. I believe she would keep you as her own prize, for the rumors were that she was very happy in her ownership. Now…will you let me go?"

"Yes." Loghain took his boot knife and plunged it into the Orlesian's throat. Varric, who had turned back to absorb this fresh horror with a storyteller's interest, protested weakly.

"You said you'd let him go in peace," he muttered.

"So I did. I did not tell him that he would go _alive. _In fact from the very first I warned him that the best he could hope for was to die quickly. I believe I delivered upon that promise."

Laz socked Varric on the shoulder. "Come on, salroka, you know we couldn't let the duster go free. Sure, busted up as he was he'd probably have left, but where would he go? Straight to his sodding Empress to tell her what happened - _and_ how bloody close their plans came to working. I say let the bitch sit and stew in her juices as long as possible."

"I know, I know. I just…I guess I don't have the stomach for this kind of thing," the storyteller said miserably. "Andraste's ass, I need a drink. I hope these bastards left some of that wine they were sucking down."

He moved off through the shambles of the camp, checking discarded bottles for an elusive sip or two of alcohol. Elilia was still staring, horror-struck, at Loghain.

"This…changes _everything," _she said at last.

"It changes nothing," Loghain said brusquely. "Nothing that is past, in any event. It does perhaps illustrate that you would have been wiser by far had you slain me at the Landsmeet, or allowed me to die of the Bloody Lung. If the Orlesian's story had any truth in it, then I'm rather a grave liability."

She shook her head. "It all fits now. There was so much I didn't completely understand…I could see you doing those things, if there were no other recourse, but I didn't understand why you felt compelled to do them _then."_

"Don't," he told her, quite firmly. Almost angrily. "Don't make excuses for me. It doesn't matter if every bloody maleficar in Thedas had a finger in my head. It changes _nothing. _What's done is done, and I've done plenty to deserve every ounce of opprobrium I've received. _I do Ferelden's dirty work, _and some of it has been bloody dirty indeed. You can't keep a King on his throne if you're afraid to suffer the Maker's wrath."

Any response she might have made was abruptly cut off by Varric's cry of triumph as he came up with several unopened bottles of chardonnay that had lain hidden beneath the canvas of a half-trampled tent. "Not bad stuff, either," he said happily. "If we had some fish or fowl to eat along with it we could have a fine dinner, but I'm not particular. Beef and mutton go just as well with white wine as red when you're thirsty enough."

He came back and handed Loghain and Elilia each a bottle, carefully not looking at the dead man with the gaping wound in his throat. "I say we scrounge up everything salvageable from these guys' camp outfit, load it and poor Birdie in the wagon, and head back to the road to make our own camp. I don't really feel like sleeping here tonight, but we can't go too far with the poor little girl still out cold."

"Sounds like a plan to me. Elilia, could you and Laz see to that, please? I'm rather thirsty myself, and I think Master Varric and I should share a drink and have a little _private discussion_. Give Elilia your bottle, Ser, and you can have it later. For now you'll drink from mine."

The dwarf looked downright frightened at this turn of events, but he seized upon the word "later" like a lifeline, and handed over his bottle of chardonnay. That there would be a "later" held the promise that he was not being taken to his death. Large hand upon the man's shoulder, Loghain led him off some little way into the trees. Champion rose and followed along, and he watched the dog more than his captive as they walked. There was a new strut in the animal's gait that verified his suspicions quite as much as the way the other dogs ceded ground to her when she passed. She'd won herself the position of Alpha. In all his life he'd never heard of a mabari smart enough to come up with a complex strategy on its own - they were highly intelligent, yes, capable of executing complicated orders, but they were not known for their ability to formulate tactics for themselves. Champion was obviously an exceptional animal, and he was gladder than ever that he'd followed Elilia to the stables that day.

When they were out of sight of camp he stopped and leaned against the bole of a large tree, took his knife and dug the cork out of the bottle. Varric watched the operation with a certain mien of distaste. Loghain had wiped it clean, but it was still the blade he'd used to dirk the Orlesian. "Sorry, only knife I've got slender enough to do the job. Don't be hair-shirted, booze drowns blood every time, I find."

He offered the dwarf first taste. Varric shrugged as he accepted the bottle. "Never been one for abnegation, particularly where fine Orlesian wine is concerned." He took a deep swallow and handed the bottle back. Loghain took a swig without even wiping off the rim of the bottle's mouth.

"So," he said as he handed off the bottle again. "Our late lamented friend back there was sent by the Empress of Orlais. Who sent _you, _Master Dwarf?"

Varric hesitated, then downed another pull of wine and handed the bottle back. "I'm here entirely of my own volition, messer. But you are correct in your assumption that our meeting was not entirely accidental."

He sighed, determined to make a clean breast of it and trust in the truth to set him free. "I, serrah, am a Merchant Prince, by inheritance the head of a family business deeply entrenched in the politics of the Dwarven Merchants' Guild. We are sellers of fine goods throughout the Free Marches, but my own personal line of work leads me to be more a purveyor of _information. _In Kirkwall I was an institution - I knew everyone, from the Viscount to the panhandlers of Darktown, and everyone knew me - and _trusted _me. It's exactly the kind of notoriety someone like me needs in order to function. But I'm not in Kirkwall anymore, I'm in _Ferelden_, where I know no one and am likewise unknown. Don't get me wrong - I like it here, and hope to make this place my new center of operations. People just don't seem to be as _uppity_ here as they are in other places, and that's a good thing. But until I have an entrée into the higher levels of society I'll never be comfortable _or _useful. If I were still with Hawke I could probably use her name to get an audience with your King and Queen and so offer my services, but Hawke's not here - _yet_. When I heard that you and the Hero of Ferelden were leaving Denerim on a secret mission it seemed like the perfect opportunity to insinuate myself into the upper echelons and start building those needed contacts. The plan was to get ahead of you and set up somewhere, friendly travelers willing to share a bite of lunch or something like that, and then offer to join forces. Being waylaid by bandits _wasn't _on the itinerary, but when you rushed to our defense it did make me feel a lot easier in my mind about asking to link up."

"To whom do you sell your _information,_ oh Merchant Prince of Spies?" Loghain asked, and kept the bottle passing back and forth from himself to the dwarf as they spoke, like a solemn ritual.

Varric drew himself up to his full height. "To the _worthiest_ bidder, serrah, and not the highest. And ofttimes the only coinage I ask in payment is that of security and friendship."

"I see. And you would extend the hand of friendship to Ferelden?"

"I came here to see if Ferelden was worth it. I have come to believe that she is."

"And what makes you think that?"

Varric gestured expansively. "You do. And _she_ does - the Hero, that is. And Hawke made me believe it before ever I set foot on your shores. There's something about Ferelden. Like any place else it has its shortcomings, but somehow it seems to breed more of the Extraordinaries, the people who have the strength and the _stones_ to fly in the face of everybody screaming at them about what is Right and what is Acceptable and defy them all and get shit _done_. Orlais can't stop singing the praises of Ser Aveline, because someone willing to step out of line and shake a fist in the face of convention is so damned unheard of there they just can't get over it. But _Ferelden_ - by the ancestors, man! You've got Dane and Hafter and Loghain and Maric and Elilia Cousland and Kireani Hawke…you've got bloody boiling _Andraste herself!_ Something in the dirt here or the water or maybe even the bloody air seems almost to _breed_ heroes. With the mess the world is in, heroes are something we're in dire need of. So if I can help even a little, I feel I should offer Ferelden my services. Besides, the rest of the world may have conveniently overlooked the fact but _I _am well aware that all Thedas owes you a debt of gratitude for stopping the Blight before it could spread."

He took a last swallow and passed the bottle, now more than two-thirds empty, back to Loghain. The big man contemplated the liquid through the thick green glass for a time, then threw his long neck back and drained it in a single gulping swallow. He threw the empty bottle down and smashed the glass beneath his boot. If there was symbolism in the act, Varric was uncertain of its meaning.

"Well enough. Let's get back and pitch in before the ladies think we ran off and left them to do all the packing like typical menfolk."


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Blood Magic**

"I think Seanna's starting to come round."

She felt herself lifted by hands that seemed to her swimming mind the size of kite shields. She opened her eyes and gazed upon a world clouded and hazy and for a moment she believed she was actually under water. Perspective had taken a holiday, and the big man who helped her sit up appeared one minute to be miles away and the next to be right in her face. She squeezed her eyes shut with a heartfelt groan and felt rather than saw the tin mug of clear water that was pressed to her cracked lips. She drank it down and felt some of the fog inside her head lift.

She opened her eyes again. The world was not quite where it should be - Loghain's eyes seemed to burn like pockets of raw lyrium, and many other colors were too vibrant as well, including the strawberry blonde of Laz' hair - but at least her depth perception was back, more or less.

"Are you all right?" Loghain asked in his gruff way. His eyes met hers quite frankly and with open concern, and with a shock she realized - _really_ realized, for the first time - exactly what it was about this man that Elilia found so attractive. He was overwhelming, _intense, _and when he turned his full attention upon her Seanna felt as if she must be the only other creature in the world at that moment. A shiver rippled down her spine, not at all unpleasant but certainly a guilty sort of feeling, and she tore her gaze away from his.

"I'm okay, I think. A little woozy. What happened?"

"We got bushwhacked, Birdie," Varric said. "Orlesians."

"They knocked us all out with sleep darts and took us prisoner," Loghain said. "They must have given you an extra dose before the rest of us waked. Probably afraid you'd unleash a demon on them if you came round. Would've given much to have seen that, actually."

"How long have I been asleep?"

"A few hours longer than the rest of us."

She looked around in confusion at the neatly laid fire and the tents. "We're…in camp? Are we free?"

"Thanks to the dogs," Elilia said. "They broke us out and we put paid to the Orlesians before they knew what was happening. Damnedest thing you ever saw."

"Here, salroka - settle your stomach with some food," Laz said, coming up with a bowl of something that steamed invitingly. "Been a long time since breakfast."

"There's wine, also, but I don't recommend it until the effects of the sleeping draught have thoroughly worn off," Loghain said.

Seanna took the bowl and dug in ravenously. The fuzzy caterpillar that seemed to have replaced her tongue could discern no flavor in the gloppy mixture of what appeared to be beef and beans and melted cheese in stock but she was far too hungry to care. Elilia laughed at her.

"Go easy, Little Bird," she cautioned. "You'll make yourself sick. There's plenty more when that's gone."

It was difficult, but she managed to moderate her pacing slightly.

"Are we going to have to worry about surprise attacks from now on?" she asked once the edge was off her hunger.

"We should have been more worried from the _start," _Loghain said ruefully. "We'll take extra precautions from now on, but I don't think we'll find another ambush awaiting us any time soon. It will take some time before the Empress realizes this first attempt has failed. I'm more worried about the King and Queen for the nonce - who knows what that bitch Celene had planned for Denerim? - but for now I'll trust to our preparations there. It's all I can do right now."

"_I'm _more worried about those phylacteries," Elilia said darkly, and Loghain glowered at her.

"What phylacteries?" Seanna asked.

"The ones the Orlesians claim are full of the Big Bull's blood, Birdie," Varric said. "Rumor has it there may be a few _gallons_ of it floating around out there somewhere, just awaiting a talented blood mage to start pulling the strings long-distance."

Seanna's spoon dropped into her bowl with a wet plop. Her green eyes took up half her face. _"Blood magic?"_

"Not every blood mage is bad, Birdie," Varric said. "I knew the sweetest little Dalish girl back in Kirkwall, just as gentle as a lamb, but she could blow your brains out your ear-holes in a heartbeat if you managed to piss her off. Thankfully it wasn't easy to do."

Seanna looked at Loghain with wide, horror-stricken eyes. "But you - you're a _Thrall?"_

"Could be," Loghain said grimly. "To what extent is difficult to say."

Varric shook his head. "I'm not going to say there isn't something in this rumor, but it seems to me that if the Empress still had your blood sitting on a shelf somewhere, and it was viable for working magics on, then you wouldn't be standing here now, Big Bull. She could have had some blood mage force you to walk right up the steps of the Grand Cathedral and put your neck right on the headsman's block. I sure can't see what benefit its been to her to leave you _alive."_

"If you have a strong resistance to magic," Seanna ventured, "then distance from the source would somewhat lessen the effects even though they're working directly upon your own shed blood. But all they would have to do is bring the blood mage and your phylactery in _closer to you, _and resistance would be futile. And with a phylactery they could always find you, using the same rites that Templars use to find Circle escapees."

"The Taint," Elilia said suddenly, with a snap of her fingers. "When you became a Warden your blood became useless to them, because you were Tainted, changing the nature of your blood. Oh shit-weasels - if I'd thought of that years ago, Anders would never have had to worry about the Circle still holding his leash, and maybe he…"

"Anders?" Varric said in surprise. "You knew Anders?"

"Er…tall, skinny blond guy with sparkly fingers? Yes, I'm the one who conscripted him into the Grey Wardens, to save him from a rather nasty templar bitch who would have seen him executed for murders committed by Darkspawn. But he didn't stick around very long, thanks to the fact that I was obliged to loan him out to some Orlesian Wardens making a trek through the Deep Roads to investigate the source of the Blight. I heard later that they made him get rid of the cat I gave him, and he ran away from them. Daft bastards. If we'd realized that the templars couldn't track him he might have come back to Amaranthine but I heard…when the 'trouble' happened in Kirkwall…" She trailed off uncertainly. "Was it really Anders? Did he really blow up the Kirkwall Chantry? I heard it was so, but I didn't want to believe it."

Varric sighed. "It _was _Anders and it _wasn't _Anders. I'll tell you the whole story some other time if you really want to hear it, but I don't think it will make you feel any better."

Elilia shook her head sadly. "Poor Anders. I could have predicted _Velanna_ might do something of the kind, but not him."

Seanna held up a hand. "Pardon me, but while I concede the concept that the Warden's Taint could render a phylactery obtained prior to the Joining ineffectual, you did tell me that Loghain is no longer Tainted, correct? So, assuming they did not pour out all their old vials of blood upon discovering they no longer worked, then he is still very much in danger - as, by extension, are _we. _Since the blood could still be used in other rituals, I see no reason to suppose there are no phylacteries left, particularly if they had many."

"Shit."

Elilia sat down upon the packed earth and thought deeply for a moment. "I see no recourse. We have to go to Kinloch Hold. The Circle still has the Litany of Adralla - the only thing known to protect against blood magic. It's all on the way, I can go in and grab it and we'll be back on track without losing schedule."

"You broke in and absconded with twelve mages, Elilia," Seanna pointed out gently. "The new Knight-Commander is not as reasonable as Griegor was. I don't think you'll be made welcome."

"Wait a minute," Laz said. "The Circle is in the middle of a sodding big _lake. _How in the name of _Andraste's ass _did you break in and steal away with a dozen mages?"

"Long story, but it involved a boat, a grappling hook, fifty feet of rope, and five high explosives made by a fellow named Dworkin Glavonak," Elilia said with a toothy grin. "I wonder if they've had time to repair the damage? In any event, we need that Litany. Otherwise we'll always be worried that Loghain is going to slaughter us in our sleep."

"Seanna shouldn't be taken anywhere too near Kinloch," Loghain said. "Too many templars."

"How about this: the three of you stay back and protect Birdie, and Laz and I will go to the Circle and I'll put my considerable powers of persuasion to use charming this Litany thing out of the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter," Varric said. Paragon barked. "And we'll take Paragon with us, of course, since she'll have to do most of the talking I'm sure."

"Do you really think they'd give it up to a couple of dwarves?" Elilia asked incredulously.

"Madam, I assure you there is no one better at the fine art of bullshitting," Varric said grandly. "I'll have the Litany, a hundred kilos of lyrium, and three mages thrown in by the time I'm done bargaining."

"Well, you'd better. Otherwise I'm storming the hold and cleaning the place out entirely," Elilia said. "We'll be there in another couple of days - in the meanwhile, you remember those skills I taught you, don't you, Loghain?"

He nodded. "I'm not in particularly good practice but yes, I do."

"Brush up on them - somewhere they won't come into conflict with Seanna. They could only help."

"What skills are those?" Seanna asked.

"Templar skills, ones I learned from King Alistair and passed along to Loghain. A Holy Smite might not be of much use against long-distance blood magic but the occasional Cleansing might dispel any niggling effects."

Seanna shuddered. "Yes, 'Cleanse' might well be put to good use in this situation, but please, _far_ away from me. Your best bet is still the Litany, though. Templars aren't immune to blood magic, as I know from personal experience."

Laz yawned, gaping widely. "Damn. Considering I slept pretty much all day, it's kind of funny I'm so flippin' _tired."_

"We should all get some sleep, while we may," Loghain said. "It's late, and we'll need to make an early start."

He pulled Elilia aside. "You should stay with Seanna," he began, but she cut him off with a kiss.

"I'm not afraid," she said boldly, ignoring the coughs, whistles, and snickers of their lookers-on. She took his hand and led him to their tent. In thralldom of a more common and occasionally more innocent blood magic, Loghain followed meekly. In short order the muted and not-so-muted sounds of their passion came from within.

"It's nice for them, of course," Varric said, with a philosophical shrug, "but the rest of us won't get any sleep for hours, listening to _that _racket."


	25. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** My evening looks to be pretty full so I probably won't have a chapter to post tomorrow, but I'll try my damnedest.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Blasphemy**

"Do you really think Varric can talk the Knight-Commander out of Circle property?" Seanna asked. From where she sat with her knees drawn up to her chest she could see the pinnacle of the Avaar-built tower that had been her home for the whole of her remembered life, rising above the treetops below the hill on which they waited. Just looking at the place made her fearful, and she had to keep reminding herself that Elilia would not let the templars take her back to that gilded prison.

Nor, she thought now, would Loghain. The big warrior would not sit, and strode back and forth across the crest of the hill with his sword unsheathed, as if daring trouble to find him. "He does seem to deal a fine line in bullshit," he said, with a slight sigh. "Not that I know anything about the Knight-Commander's susceptibility, or the First Enchanter's for that matter."

"It doesn't matter. If he can't get them to hand it over, we'll take it. Ferelden's national security may depend on it," Elilia said fiercely. She sat on the grass beside Seanna with Haakon almost in her lap. She scratched the dog's neck without really seeming to notice him.

Loghain snorted derisively. "Don't expect the Circle of Magi to be particularly concerned with Ferelden national security."

Seanna glared reproachfully at him. "How can you say that? This is our home too, you know, even if we're not allowed to live freely in it."

He shook his head. "Wasn't speaking of the mages themselves, dear heart, although would it surprise you very much to hear that the First Enchanter before Irving was part of a plot to abduct King Maric? The _templars, _on the other hand…hmph. They're the strong arm of the Chantry, and the Chantry is an _Orlesian_ institution."

"Woah wait - abduct King Maric? What are you talking about?" Elilia asked.

"Long story. Let's just say that we won't be allowing the Ferelden Circle to choose an _Orlesian_ First Enchanter, ever again." A pause, and then a derisive snort. "Actually, thinking back, I suppose _I_ was the original target, but I don't think they were at all unhappy that I was too suspicious and Maric too confoundedly guileless. So I pulled his chestnuts out of the fire - _again_ - and there's an end to it."

"You were…_fond_ of King Maric?" Seanna ventured doubtfully.

"Ha. It is an odd truth about life, little one, but the people we are fondest of are often the very same people who are best and quickest able to piss us off. Has something to do with being family, even if there's no blood kin involved."

Seanna toyed with the grass a bit and plucked a few blades. "There won't be any grass where we're going, will there? The Darkspawn left the land barren."

"Even here, things don't grow quite as they ought," Loghain said. "This grass should be almost knee-deep and green as your eyes. Now its only a couple of inches and there's just barely any green in it at all. There was plenty of rain this season - the land is just…tainted. We're on the verge of the true Blightlands, here."

"Do you think perhaps we ought to try the ashes here?" Elilia asked. "After all, if they don't work _here, _there's no particular reason to go any further."

He sighed. "I've been trying to sort that very question out myself. The problem as I see it is, how will we _know _they've worked on land that isn't obviously corrupted? I don't want to waste ashes on land that's still productive when there are so many hundreds of acres that are stunted or poisoned."

"I see your point," Elilia said. "But I still think we should try it now. Just a little tiny pinch, to see what we're looking at. If it doesn't seem like anything happened then we'll continue into the Blightlands and give it a go in a real test, but if there _is_ some obvious change, it could give us an idea how much we need to use per acre. And since you seem reluctant to let our dwarven comrades in on our little project, we might not have a better time for a private test."

Loghain looked down at Champion, keeping pace with him every step. "What do _you _think?" he asked her. She sat down on her haunches and panted. "Looks like an agreement to me. Help me with my armor, won't you?"

Ever since the ambush, Loghain had taken to carrying the little pouch of ashes secured inside the chest piece of his armor. The Orlesians had evidently taken the little pouch of ashes to be some sort of weapon - perhaps sand to be flung in the eyes of an opponent - and had tossed the precious bag into the pile of weapons they confiscated from their prisoners. Elilia helped him with the strapping and he untied the pouch from where it was fastened on the underside.

"Just toss it aside for now," Loghain said, and Elilia set the armor down on the ground. He opened the pouch and took a deep breath. "This is probably the most insane thing I have ever done, and I've done some crazy shit in my time."

Elilia ran a hand across the expanse of his chest, riffling through the hair that covered it, and kissed his cheek. "It's not all that crazy to _hope, _you know."

"I _hope_ you're right about that."

They knelt down together and Seanna joined them, eager to see what would happen. "With my bloody luck, even if it _works _we'll get about half an inch of untainted ground. Empty the whole bag and get about two square feet of tillable soil."

Elilia socked him on the shoulder. "Stop being so damned pessimistic about everything. You suck all the joy out of life."

"_What _joy?"

She socked him again, a bit harder. "Just give me the bloody pouch."

He did so, along with a penitent kiss. He dug a shallow hole in the earth and she sprinkled in just the tiniest amount of ashes. For a moment it seemed nothing in particular happened. Then Seanna gave a quiet gasp. "I think - I think its _working," _she said.

It took a moment longer for the humans to see what she'd seen. The grass…was _greener, _and greening up more by the second. And it was _growing, _slowly at first, but then so quickly they could almost hear it. And not just where they'd placed the ashes, but as far around them as they could see. The pines and firs, too, shed their dowdy colors and stood resplendent in proper evergreen dignity. It was difficult to determine, from their vantage point surrounded by such trees, exactly how far the ashes' influence spread, but there was a decided _greenness_ to all the visible world now that had not been there before, and suggested the miracle worked for a decent distance. The dogs barked joyously and rolled in the rich green grass. Seanna fell backward with her arms outstretched and did much the same. Loghain and Elilia looked at each other.

"Tie that bag up well, Elilia," Loghain said, and there was a noticeable quaver in his voice. "That little pile of dust is worth more than all the gold in Nevarra."

She knotted the drawstring, a strange smile that was half-ecstatic, half-stunned played about her lips. When she had it securely tied she slowly placed both hands on Loghain's shoulders, never letting go her white-knuckle grip on the leather pouch.

"Never. Crazy. To _hope," _she said.

"I'm not in any position to argue," he said fervently.

She grinned at him, then planted an enormous kiss directly upon his lips, with her arms tightening around his neck. He held her close and wished her chest was as bare as his was, but even in her heavy mail she felt wonderful against his body. Seanna was utterly forgotten and even Elilia's heavy armor might not have proven a lasting impediment but for a sudden interruption that reminded him rather cruelly that they were not alone.

"Maker's breath, you can't even wait to pitch a tent before you…you know, pitch a tent?"

Laz at least didn't seem to be paying attention to the lovers. She looked around in rapt wonder. "What happened here?" she asked. "It's like someone dumped a big bucket of green dye all over this place."

"That was quick," Loghain growled. "Gave up so soon?"

"Serrah, we barely had but to walk in the front door," Varric said grandly, and pulled from an inner coat pocket a sheaf of parchment. "One Litany of Adralla, as promised."

"How on earth did you manage to convince them to give it to you so easily?" Seanna asked. She took it from him and examined the pages as if she didn't believe it could be the real thing.

He snickered. "Easy as pie, Birdie. Before we even had time to explain who we were and what we wanted we were fobbed off on a _dwarven mage, _who was only too happy to give us what we were after."

"A dwarven mage?" Loghain asked, incredulous, but Elilia and Seanna said in perfect unison, _"Dagna!"_

"That was her name, all right," Varric confirmed. "She sent her regards along with the Litany, both for you, My Lady, and you, Birdie. I have to say she seemed a bit unhappy with you for leaving, and doesn't seem to understand why anyone would ever want to."

"Well, I daresay the Circle looks a bit different when you're there by choice," Seanna said.

"Someone please explain what the hell a _dwarven mage _is," Loghain insisted.

Elilia laughed. "Dagna is a scholar, Loghain, not a mage, but she has a boundless enthusiasm for magic undampened, apparently, by a good solid decade living with mages. I relayed her request to First Enchanter Irving myself - part of the reason we returned to Orzammar was so that I could tell her he was happy to offer her a chance to study at the Circle. Nice to see she remembers me."

"Most of our time was spent listening to her _talk _about you," Laz said. "Girl's got a mouth that moves more than a waterwheel."

Varric flicked a hand at the greenery all around them. "So, uh…what _did _happen here?" he asked. "I gotta say, it was a hell of a shock when everything just suddenly turned _green._ I thought my eyes were going. Or my mind."

"Might as well tell them," Elilia said. "There's not much chance of keeping it a deep, dark secret _now."_

Loghain grunted noncommittally, but rose to his feet and pulled Elilia up with him. "That's what we're out here in the backwoods to do," he said. "Make everything green again."

"Ah. Succinct and to the point, I'll grant you, but not exactly _clarification," _Varric said.

"We've found a cure for the corruption the Blight left on the land," Elilia supplied. She held out the unassuming leather pouch. "The Ashes of Andraste."

Varric stared for a long breath, then blinked twice, slowly. "The…_actual _ashes? I mean, I'd heard the rumors…and for awhile there Kirkwall was overrun with mountebanks pawning off bags of chimney sweepings…but I never really thought for a minute…"

"You saw what happened to the trees and grasses," Loghain growled. "What more do you need?"

Varric held out his hands in supplication. "Hey, I'm not saying I doubt you. I've seen enough to know that you can't put anything past a Ferelden, even a miracle."

"I hope you understand this needs to be kept quiet," Elilia said. "The Chantry would probably call this a blasphemy rather than a miracle, and we're already running the risk of an Exalted March these days. People are going to notice there's a difference, but they don't really need to know how it came about."

"Don't worry, I'm not in the Chantry's good graces these days, either. I won't breathe a word of this."

"Much obliged," Loghain said dryly. "Now we're wasting daylight. Let's get moving."


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **Technically, there is no reason to suppose that the ashes of Andraste would make grass grow super-fast. Just because she heals it doesn't mean she gives it a shot of growth hormone. But grass grows fast even under ordinary circumstances, and this _is _a supernatural event, and it makes it clear that the ashes have worked, so I think I'm justified.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Blightlands**

The dwarves arrived a little more than two weeks after Loghain and Elilia's party left Denerim. They were led by none other than Vartag Gavorn himself, King Behlen's trusted - albeit slightly greasy - Second. The usual courtesies were paid at the Palace, but then the King and Queen were made rather an unusual request - to join the dwarven delegation _on the quays _for their presentation.

Kings and Queens are not comfortable in such seedy areas as harbor frontage, even Kings and Queens "of the people" as Alistair and Anora were considered. Royal bodyguards are even _less _comfortable in such places, and tend to hover rather annoyingly close to their charges. But they lifted up their skirts - metaphorically but for Anora who did so literally - and followed the dwarven procession to the docks, where they were met by quite a sight - a dozen enormous steel-built wagons, each pulled by an eight-bronto hitch. The contents of these vehicles were covered with plain canvas tarpaulins, but it was clear the loads were tremendous.

"King Behlen understands what it is to rule - what it is to have enemies. Since your Warden not only assisted my King in attaining his rightful throne, but also assisted us in regaining the lost technology that has enabled us to defend our borders and reclaim territory from the scourge of the Darkspawn, King Behlen wishes to offer your nation a taste of the victory the dwarves have had in recent days. The restoration of Kal-Hirol has given us the means to produce wonders that we haven't had the manpower or resources to do for generations. Because of this windfall our King felt that a generous gesture with our near neighbors and great allies was more than appropriate. He wishes me to convey his sincerest hope that you will crush your enemies, and also to inform you that if you would consider bolstering your own armies with a core of a few golems, we would be happy to deal with you. We learned from our mistakes of years past, and do not intend to open up trade of these precious constructs, so Ferelden is the _only _nation that may choose to benefit from our Paragon's researches."

Alistair, who knew the dreadful secret behind the creation of golems, attempted valiantly to hide his discomfiture at being offered a sales pitch. "That is certainly a generous offer, Ser Vartag, and one we will most definitely keep in mind - but at the moment we've invested our national treasury pretty heavily in shoring up fortifications in our major harbors. I don't think we could afford golems at the present."

"We understand. Indeed, harbor defenses is entirely why we are here, Your Majesty," Vartag said. "Dwarves are not seafarers by nature, so we certainly understand a culture that looks upon the sea with justifiable suspicion, but you are Surfacers, and coastlines are a terrible weak spot in your national defenses. We can help you with that. We have built for you a pair of Guardian Statues to flank the entrance to Denerim Harbor, enchanted with barrier spells to prevent seaborne assault on the city."

"Statues? Is that what's in the carts?" Alistair asked. "They're in pieces, I assume? They must be huge."

Vartag chuckled. "Your Majesty, the _statues _are still en route from Orzammar. The carts contain the pieces of their _bases, _and my craftsmen and enchanters will begin construction of them immediately. This is the part that will take longest, for we must set up barrier wards to keep the ocean back while we work, but it will not take many days - and we will not be an impediment to shipping."

"You're putting them in the water?" Alistair asked. "How do you manage that?"

"Enchantment. Believe me when I say, Your Majesty, that our statues will defend your city capably for millennia."

"Give King Behlen our sincerest gratitude for this generous gift and his gracious offer of further assistance," Anora said. An exchange of nods and bows were made, and the King and Queen were able to make a dignified exit while dwarven supervisors began barking orders at their laborers. Anora whispered an aside to her husband when they were out of Vartag's earshot. "Of course you realized what this really is, don't you?"

Alistair chuckled. "A bribe. If these 'Guardian Statues,' whatever they are, are as grand as they seem to be claiming, we'll be beholden to 'Good King Behlen,' and likely that's a marker he'll call in sooner rather than later."

"If they keep Denerim from falling to Orlesian warships, then when we've settled matters with the Empire I'll _gladly_ send any aid we can afford to Orzammar."

"I agree. Good to know we're on the same page. I just hope that whatever these statues are, they're not as blocky and…_dwarven_ as their Paragon statues. They're impressive, surely, but as a representation of Ferelden they would be bloody god-awful." He lengthened his stride abruptly as they neared the dockyards. "Hey - while we're here, let's check in on Old Ironsides. Last report said she was about ready to launch."

Anora suppressed a wry grin at the eagerness in her husband's voice. Men were all such little boys about big boats.

The big ironclad was indeed prepared for launch, in fact it was already in position for the big moment, awaiting only its crew. The master shipwright informed the eager King about the repairs and improvements made with pride of ownership in his voice.

They were not unobserved. Not a hundred feet away a ship rested at anchor, awaiting its turn to declare at the Harbormaster's dock. It was a long wait even on a good day, and all was quiet aboard _The Siren's Call II _as the sleepy crew lounged below decks mostly, waiting. One figure leaned indolently against the mast, as casually possessive of the vessel as only a captain or a cabin boy could ever be. It was a woman, scantily clad and Rivaini-colored, who watched the Royal goings-on with sharp caramel-brown eyes. After a time she walked over to a hatch and knocked on it with the heel of her boot.

"Hey, come on out and see this."

She moved away, crossing her arms over her ample bosom, and the hatch opened. Another woman climbed out, followed closely by yet a third and a large, dusty-grey hound. The second woman was slim, and her careless hair was prematurely white. Her face, however, was unlined, and if it was rather plain it had a look of honesty to it. It also had a bold tattoo, done relatively lightly in red ink, of a stylized bird of prey that spanned both cheeks and stretched from forehead to chin - a mark that went well with her far-seeing amber-gold eyes. The third woman was even _more _slender, almost birdlike, and her face too was tattooed, but the dark brown marks were the traditional _vallaslin _of the Dalish.

"What is it, Isabella?" the white-haired woman asked. "Trouble?"

"No, just thought you'd want a chance to ogle your King and Queen before suing for audience, is all," Isabella said. She tossed her chin in the direction of the dockyards. "There they are, if you can see them through the crowd of armed attendants. The Queen I am unfamiliar with, though she looks a bit of an iceberg, don't she? The King I met some time ago, though he wasn't a king at the time. Funny how things work out for some people."

The Dalish woman cocked her head to one side questioningly, a birdlike motion, and asked, "He wasn't a King? What was he, then?"

Isabella laughed. "Well, I assume he was a _prince_, Kitten, if only by a technicality. My understanding is that Good King Alistair was a Royal Bastard."

"Why would they call him _Good_ King Alistair if he were a bastard?" Merrill asked. Her companions only chuckled and shook their heads at each other.

"Don't worry, Kitten," Isabella said. "'Tis in the contrary nature of humanity that _some_ bastards are actually very _nice _people. My impression of His Majesty at the time was that he was rather a sweet little lad, all flustered and uncomfortable to be tagging along behind his Big Sister Warden at a _brothel, _of all places. Speaking of which, I hope the Pearl is still in business. I suppose the _Lay Warden _isn't working anymore, but there's bound to be _someone_ interesting there."

Hawke laughed. "Not to worry, Isabella. I'm sure the prostitutes were the first people in Denerim to be restored to prosperity."

* * *

Looking back, Loghain had to say the dragonlings were the least of their worries. They ran into a small nest of them, unguarded, three days into the heavily Blighted lands. It was a rough skirmish but despite their lack of experience fighting alongside each other the party worked seamlessly as one, and the only injuries were minor and easy for Seanna's powerful healing spells to deal with. But that was _three _days in. By the seventh day, the team learned well that there were far worse things making their home in the Blightlands than baby dragons.

Giant spiders were common, alarmingly so. Loghain had never seen such enormous spiders outside of the Deep Roads, and he didn't like to think about them spreading throughout Ferelden, but they were at least relatively easy to kill. The bad part was numbers, much more so even than their venom, and several times they were nearly overwhelmed. Elilia and Laz ripped them apart as quickly as they could while Varric and Seanna pounded away with bolts and spells from behind Loghain's defending shield. The dogs pitched in, as well, for it was impossible to tell Champion to stay back now that she was Alpha. Loghain wasn't particularly happy about that, but he had to admit they were a tremendous asset even as young as they were.

The mature dragon they encountered on the seventh day, however, was a terrible battle even though it stood alone. It was not as large as a High Dragon by any means, but it was the next worst thing, and it took them by ambush. Fortunately, Varric at least seemed to have had some experience in slaying dragons, which was a tremendous boon. Laz was completely unprepared and took massive injuries, but the end of the battle found her riding high on the dragon's neck, gleefully driving the blade of her main-hand waraxe into the top of the beast's skull while Loghain's blade drew life's blood from the creature's armored throat. The burns Laz suffered kept Seanna awake all night, and the poor mage had to swallow enough lyrium potions to get quite drunk on the stuff. All told, they got off rather easily.

In camp that night there was little talk. Everyone was weary, Seanna worked feverishly to heal Laz' wounds, and despite the victory they all felt rather hollow in the aftermath. To boost morale, Loghain decided that it was a good time to try another dose of ashes on the Blight-corrupted ground. He briefly considered using a small pinch on Laz, but discarded the idea after a moment's thought. The wounds had to be utterly excruciating but the woman gave no sign of it, and her life was in no danger. By the time Seanna was done she probably wouldn't even have any major scars, not that he thought losing her "cute" would bother the dwarf in the slightest. He would save the ashes against the possibility that someone could take Blightsick from so much exposure to corrupted land.

The results of that first test were encouraging, to say the least. Miles of Ferelden countryside showed the effects, and although it was early autumn the land bloomed like spring. But that had been a test on earth but lightly poisoned, and there was no telling how effective the ashes would prove on ground burnt black by the tainted legions that soured it. Loghain had wanted to be well and fully in the middle of the Blightlands when they made this second experiment, to see how far the effect would spread.

He gestured to Elilia to join him at the edge of camp. She trudged with heavy steps, thoroughly disheartened by the fight and the blackness all around, and he gave her a tender, lingering kiss before explaining what he wanted. She only nodded half-heartedly and helped him retrieve the ashes from the inside of his chest piece. Once again he dug a slight hole in the earth and Elilia sprinkled in a small pinch of time-powdered remains.

As before, the effect was not immediately visible, but once it started it spread like wildfire. The barren black earth was transformed, turning the rich black of fine, fertile soil, the kind of soil that grows tall prairie grasses and wildflowers, the kind of soil that grows tall corn and golden wheat, the kind of soil that could pasture sheep and cattle. And then a true wonder occurred, _grasses_ began to sprout from that rich black earth, from seeds that had lain dormant and tainted beneath the barren lands but remained viable. Within a very few minutes all that was black turned beautifully _green._

With a deep sigh and a huge smile, Elilia fell back into the budding grasses with her arms outstretched. "This…is good for the soul," she said. "I needed this."

Loghain felt rather a lot better himself, and smiled as he tied up the bag and stowed it away again inside his armor. He stood and took a three hundred and sixty-degree survey of the plain, and saw everything greening up all the way to the far horizon. The sight buoyed his spirits and it was a fit of rare optimism that made him think this venture would conclude much sooner and with better results than he'd ever anticipated. They could cure all the Blightlands, he was sure of it, and while they'd probably miss Harvestmere he was certain they'd be home by Satinalia. That was something to look forward to, his first grand holiday with his grandchildren.

The dogs played in the new grass, barking, chasing each other, and rolling ecstatically. Elilia still lay with her arms outstretched, smiling up at the clear near-dusk sky. He thought they had the right idea. Abandoning dignity, he simply dropped to the ground like a felled tree and lay there for a long time, listening to the grass crackle and snap like popped corn. Sometimes, it seemed, the ashes didn't even have to make contact with someone in order to heal them.


	27. Chapter 27

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Denerim? Damn Near Killed 'Im**

"Look there - what do you suppose is going on in there?"

The second man grumbled something from behind his plague mask, but turned the cumbersome thing to look. Underneath the canvas covering the two large objects they'd seen from the ship were visible the silhouettes of small, stocky figures, laboring up and down a lighted scaffolding. "Dwarven work," he said at last. "None of our business, so long as none of them look out and see us."

"But what in the Maker's name do you suppose they are building?" the first man, also wearing a long-beaked plague mask underneath his black hooded cloak, asked. "I've never seen anyone build something in the middle of a harbor before."

"It's no concern of ours what they're building - and its probably just lighthouses."

"_Two _lighthouses?" the first man asked, but received no response. The oarsmen brought the longboat close to the dock and another man jumped out and tied the little vessel fast to the piles. The six occupants of the boat all wore the grim, beaky plague masks, the long nosepieces stuffed with dried spindleweed, elfroot, and salubrious enbrium, and all six wore long, hooded black cloaks. The seventh occupant of the longboat was contained within a large wooden crate resting upon a bier, and each of the six men found a handhold and hoisted the box and its inhabitant out of the craft.

"The Alienage is this way - quickly now," the leader of the "plague doctors" said, and the six men moved off through the docks, keeping to the shadows, making their best effort to avoid detection. When guards were spotted they were quick to take cover, and they carried their grim and bulky burden with professional stealth and practiced grace. When they finally made the walls of the Alienage they dropped their load inside the gate without concern for the welfare of its occupant.

Two of the plague doctors pulled from within their cloaks long steel pry bars, and with but a moment's work they broke the box apart. A sickly, fragile-looking young man, underfed, pale, and covered in his own waste and the remains of what little food had been pushed in to him through a narrow flap on the side of the box, lay helpless upon the bier, too weak to move. Whether this weakness came from the advanced condition of his illness or his long confinement in the tiny box would be impossible to determine. The young man was an elf, and he was very sick indeed.

"Quickly now, back to the boat," the leader of the plague doctors said, and the men abandoned their strange burden and fled back to the docks and the waiting longboat. They did not care now whether the young man survived until morning, for it no longer mattered. His illness would do the work it was intended for whether he was alive to see it or not.

* * *

The _Fighting Ferelden _stood at anchor in the deep waters off Denerim bay, rocking gently in the calm waters. Launched just days ago, she remained at home port while nervous shipwrights observed her behavior in the water - like unto a broad-backed sea turtle, riding low and lazy on the surface, calmly oblivious to the waves despite the jitters of the tiny organisms that hitched a ride on her back or in her belly - and to bring her almost entirely green crew up to speed.

Among the crew were almost a dozen apostates, recruited through the Crown's surreptitious maneuvering to bring in as many mages as possible. They dressed in the same rough manner as the regular sailors, but their purpose on board the ship was very specific - these mages claimed to be masters of the difficult art of conjuring favorable winds, spells of haste, and spells to make the heavy, bulky ship move as lightly in the water as any clipper. Training maneuvers were difficult to arrange, due to fears of Chantry witnesses, and no one knew yet just how well these bonuses would help the vessel in an actual sea battle.

A sailor approached the Second Mate, who was acting as the evening Watch Commander. "Ser…there's a vessel been spotted at anchor about a league to starboard. She's not burning any lights."

"Colors?"

"None to be seen, Ser. Reckon they're raiders or slavers, or just generally up to no good."

"Well, we should put a stop to that." And the Second Mate left the deck to rouse the captain. In short order the man was up and barking orders, and the _Fighting Ferelden's _anchor was raised and her sails were set. Since it was dark and they were well offshore it seemed a good time to test the mages' claims, so the apostates were set to fill the sails with favorable winds and make the wallowing vessel sail smoothly. The speed with which the big ship managed to close the distance surprised every man aboard, and when bare eyes could see the activity on deck of the strange vessel, it was clear they'd taken their prey by surprise, as well.

The First Mate bellowed across the distance an edict for the darkened vessel to identify itself and its business. There was no response for a good long while, and the Second Mate pointed out to the Captain that the crew of the other ship appeared to be hauling a longboat out of the sea, loaded with six dark figures. The First Mate repeated his command, along with a warning that if the other ship failed to comply, the_ Fighting Ferelden _was ready and willing to live up to its name. The silence held, and then a response came at last - in the form of a ballista bolt roughly the size of an harpoon that bounced harmlessly off the ironclad's side. The captain chuckled grimly.

"That wasn't very friendly of them, was it?" he said. "Load the forecastle catapult, and send them a message that manners are important to Fereldens."

A crew of men ran below and reemerged from the hold carrying an enormous tar bomb, which they loaded into the catapult and sent flying at the enemy ship. An apostate cast a fireball at the bomb as it sailed across the waters, so that when it struck the wooden mast and rigging it was flaming brilliantly. In moments the main of the two-masted vessel's sails were ablaze. The sounds of screams and flurried, panicked commands were heard from the burning ship - commands given in Orlesian.

"Sink her," the captain of the _Fighting Ferelden _commanded. "We'll pluck what prisoners we can take from the water once she's down."

The ship's reinforced steel bowsprit, and the sharp metal "figurehead" that was nothing more or less than a gigantic axe bit, were pointed directly at the other vessel's broadside. Mages summoned wind into her sails, and the _Fighting Ferelden _zoomed toward the Orlesian ship with unnatural speed. The smaller ship was sheared in half by the force of the collision, wooden construction splintering and breaking with an almighty thunder. The _Fighting Ferelden _took only minor damage - some of her rigging caught fire when it came too close to the blazing wreckage of the other boat. One of the apostates doused the flames with a simple ice spell, and they didn't even lose a sail.

The Orlesian ship sank out of sight in swift order, leaving only scattered remnants floating on the surface to mark that it was ever there at all. Lanterns at the end of long poles were strung out to search the dark waters for survivors. They found only three. A longboat was shipped out to take prisoners, and the _Fighting Ferelden _made for Denerim harbor, to remand the Orlesians to the custody of the guards of Fort Drakon. The men were cheerful and sang victorious shanties as they worked. The captain was less pleased than the men, wondering exactly what sort of devilry the longboat full of Orlesians got up to before they were found out. But at least the perpetrators had been brought to justice, the ship and her crew had acquitted themselves admirably, and the three prisoners currently cooling their heels in the hold would tell the talented interrogators in Fort Drakon everything they knew about the Orlesians' mission - _eventually._

* * *

A hooded figure slipped through the back streets behind the Palace District in the dead of night, followed closely by a large dog. At one point hound and figure stopped, listening, as a great crash far out at sea resounded through the night, but eventually, undaunted, they continued on. Whatever was going on out on the ocean was out of their hands.

They finally stopped before the servants' entrance to the palace cellars, where a burly guard leaned against the wall with a studied show of indifference. "What do _you_ want?" the man asked.

"King Alistair sent me."

"Did 'e now? All right, you lot - go on in, then." And the guard was kind enough to hold the door.

There ought to have been bare corridor inside, or stacks of root vegetables. Instead there was an ornate desk and a well-dressed man sitting at it with his head in his hands. The man heard them approach and looked up. Dark circles shadowed bright hazel eyes, but no amount of weariness or care could change the perpetual affability of that face.

"King Alistair!" Hawke gasped, surprised.

"Hello. Are you an apostate? Don't be afraid - there's no ambush. The Crown really and truly is hiring, so to speak."

"I…I am no apostate, Your Majesty, I wished only to investigate the offer of amnesty. On behalf of…friends."

"You're not another Chantry loyalist, are you?" Alistair asked, with a moue of distaste. "There've been three thus far, and I was most aggrieved to have to kill them. They were, after all, only doing what they thought was right. I'm sure my _father-in-law _would have been proud of me, at least."

"No, Your Majesty, I am certainly no Chantry loyalist," Hawke said, with a smile evident in her voice. "Actually I am currently wanted by the Chantry, for questioning regarding the incidents in Kirkwall." She pushed back her hood and revealed her face.

"Champion Hawke!" King Alistair said. It was clearly his turn to be surprised. "I had not heard you were in Ferelden."

Hawke blushed. "Yes, Your Majesty, and for that I apologize. I meant to announce my presence and offer my services, but after so long away, and everything that happened here, I found I barely knew the city. Then, too, it was hard to know just how…_visible_ I could afford to make myself."

"I suppose I understand that," Alistair said, "but I wouldn't be too surprised to find _myself_ on the Chantry's Most Wanted list these days. Fortunately Ferelden's Grand Cleric is sympathetic to the Crown and is not only doing her best to keep the Divine out of our hair, but she's also gracious enough to look the other way while I bring in as many apostates as we can gather to help us out. You are here on behalf of a mage, then? I had heard you had dealings with apostates in Kirkwall. You understand that I can't offer open amnesty - not _yet, _at any rate. Once things are settled with the Empire, I'm hoping that will change."

"But it is a genuine offer? The Crown will provide protection in exchange for service?"

"It is, and we shall. Not that we feel particularly secure in the current climate ourselves. But the more mages we have on our side, the safer we feel - _that_ much I can swear to. Er…if I may ask, what mage is it you're here to represent?"

Hawke considered lying, or prevaricating at the very least, but she was a straightforward individual and even her very brief previous contact with this man suggested to her that he was the sort to appreciate that kind of honesty - _and_ the sort who could be trusted with it. "My sister," she said at last. "And my lover, as well. They and a few of my companions came with me when we left Kirkwall after the incident with Knight-Commander Meredith."

"I see," Alistair said. "Well, I'll gladly offer any and all security that I am able, to you and all your companions. We would certainly welcome your aid."

Hawke bowed. "You shall have it. One of my friends is captain of a fine vessel - if it will aid Ferelden in any way, I will do my utmost to convince her to offer her service to the Crown."

"We could definitely use another ship. We've managed to secure a few mercenary warships, but of Ferelden's own navy? That gigantic hulk of metal offshore is it. A fast ship, capable of outstripping pursuit, would be most welcome at this point. We've been sending out for allies but the most distant ones - Nevarra, for example - have had to wait. And Nevarra would be our best asset at this point, even if all they did was renew their assault on Orlais' western border."

"Isabella's ship is the fastest in the Waking Sea. _And_ she's well-armed."

"Well send her my felicitations, and tell her that Ferelden is quite willing to pay handsomely. Plus she and her crew may keep any spoils they happen to 'liberate' in the pursuit of duty."

Hawke chuckled. "I'm sure she'll like that idea."

"Listen, why don't you bring your friends 'round the palace proper in the morning? It would be good to convey my offer properly and in person, and I'd rather like to meet them. And there's someone here I believe you're familiar with, who'd probably like to see you again."

"Someone I'm familiar with? Wouldn't by any chance be a funny little dwarf named Varric, would it?"

Alistair chuckled. "No, more of a…_strong-willed _ginger with an Orlesian name."

Hawke grinned. "Aveline! So she came back to Ferelden after all! She's in your service?"

He nodded. "She and her husband both - in fact, they're part of the Queen's retinue now, personal bodyguard. I remembered her from the time we spoke in Kirkwall. Seemed exactly the sort we wanted on our side."

"She is. I shall be very happy to see her again. And Donnic, as well."

"I suspect they will feel likewise. The first thing Aveline asked after joining our service was whether or not we'd had any word from you."

"I _hope_ she'll be happy to see me. She didn't exactly like the fact that I sided against the templars after what happened to the Chantry, but she stood by me."

"She doesn't seem bent on revenge, if that's what you're worried about. Given what we've heard about what happened in Kirkwall, I think justice was on your side, even if the Chantry wasn't."

"As far as that goes, the templars stood aside and let us escape after they saw what had happened to their Knight-Commander. She was out of her mind, I fear, driven mad by a cursed relic from the Deep Roads."

"Things have improved for the mages of Kirkwall, as I understand it, under the command of Knight-Commander Cullen. He's still rather strict, but he's also been one of the most outspoken opponents of the Divine's recent edicts against mages. I was part of the party that rooted out the blood mages who took over the Ferelden Circle, and we found Cullen held prisoner within a cage of magic the likes of which I'd never seen before. With all he suffered its no wonder he thinks mages are to be carefully supervised, but its good to see he's not so…_radical_ in his treatment of them as Knight-Commander Greagoir once feared he would become."

"He had his moments, believe me. After I spoke out to him against the templars' treatment of mages, and he took my sister from our home in lowtown, he wasn't exactly my biggest fan. But I believe he is a good man, and a stiff dose of the kind of crazy Meredith was could cure anybody of being too radical." Hawke paused a moment, then asked, "If I may, Your Majesty, does it really pay you to stay up all night, waiting for apostates to happen by?"

Alistair chuckled wearily. "I'm up all night, regardless, so I might as well do something useful with my time. Most nights I just sit here and go over old trade agreements and all the umpteen-million complaints authored by the pernickety bannorn, but some nights I get a score of apostates willing to help out. It seems worthwhile, somehow."

"I feel I should tell you, in case you didn't hear - there was a god-awful crashing sound out on the sea. I expect something big and bad happened, though whether 'twas to our benefit or not I do not know."

Alistair sighed. "If we're lucky then it was the _Fighting Ferelden _proving its value. If we're unlucky it was the _Fighting Ferelden _sinking. I'll know soon enough, I expect. Loghain will _kill _me if I lose his ship."

"Do you…really trust him?" Hawke asked tentatively. "I mean, I heard about the Battle of Sulcher, but…I can't quite forget seeing the beacon at Ishal burning brightly…and _not_ seeing our general charging to defend us."

"You were with the army at Ostagar, then?" Alistair asked. "It is…_difficult_ to trust Loghain, in the wake of everything that happened during the Blight. But I have rather reluctantly come to the opinion that he is a better man than I gave him credit for. I cannot forgive him or even fully understand everything he did, but I believe he will do nothing further to harm Ferelden…at least not intentionally. And right now he and the Lady Elilia Cousland are on a very important mission to save our land, quite literally. Reports from the bannorn indicate they've met with considerable success. With her to keep watch over him, I suppose I have no fears - although I could wish I didn't think she were watching him just a little bit _too _closely."

"Lady Elilia Cousland? The Hero of Ferelden?"

"The same. She has recently been restored to the nobility, and I believe that if the Queen has her way - and she _always_ has her way - then Elilia will be made Teyrna of Gwaren, and Loghain will be her Teyrn-Consort."

"Teyrn-Consort?" Hawke asked, in some confusion.

"A title we do not use in Ferelden, or rather haven't since the Black Age, before ever we even were a nation. But I expect the nobility will insist upon it, and I can't say myself but that I won't feel a trifle better about things if that diminution is in place. Not that I expect it to make the slightest real difference - if Elilia wants to let him have a say in the way things are run in Gwaren, I expect she'll do it no matter how nervous it makes the bannorn."

"They are…_lovers_, then?"

"So it would seem. No accounting for taste, I guess."

The guard poked his head in then, interrupting further discussion.

"Beggin' yer pardon, m'liege, but I've just 'ad a report that the _Fighting Ferelden _has put into dock with a trio of Orlesian prisoners aboard. Evidently they sunk a' Orlesian ship in Denerim 'arbor, which accounts for that a'mighty ruckus a time ago. F'ought ye'd like to know, Yer Majesty - they've sent th' prisoners to Drakon for questionin'."

"Hmm, good news - at least if Old Ironsides caught them before they did any damage. I suppose I should go to Fort Drakon and oversee the interrogation. Ah - if anyone should happen by…?"

"Not to worry, Yer Majesty. I'll tell 'em you've gone a-visitin' and send 'em to the kitchens for a hot meal an' a place t' doss down 'til ye can see 'em."

"Good man. Champion Hawke…until tomorrow, then?"

She bowed. "Until tomorrow, Your Majesty."


	28. Chapter 28

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **Oops, I **M**'ed it again.

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **Like Loghain, I am not afraid of spiders. I even admire them, as a beautiful bit of natural engineering perfectly designed for the niche they fill. But they _are_ repulsive and I can't stand to look at them - the ones in DAO were bad, the ones in DAII were almost too friggin' realistic, and the first time Merrill shocked one of the really big ones with Horror I nearly threw up. In all, I'd have to say good job to the animators.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: And When I Woke Up, My Halla Was Gone!**

After three weeks in the Blighted Ferelden Valley, trudging days through soul-sucking blackness, then experiencing the life-affirming lift of watching it live and breathe again, and between times battling hordes of giant spiders and the occasional (thankfully immature) dragon, the little hot spring came as a welcome relief to all of them. Loghain in particular was happy to see it because it meant they were well into the Hinterlands and the Southron Hills, which meant they were nearing the end of the Blightlands. They'd used rather little of the precious store of ashes, and the bag appeared completely undepleted. In celebration, he allowed the party to rest and recuperate in this salubrious spot an extra day.

Thanks to the return of the grasses and the slaughter of the spiders and dragons, animals also were slowly creeping back into the formerly corrupted lands. Rabbits came first, tentative, hungry for green, followed by deer. It kept the party eating quite well, and Loghain wished they'd ridden horses after all. They would have cut down on travel time nicely, could have eaten their fill of the fresh-grown grass, and he and Elilia could have been back in Denerim by Harvestmere after all. Oh well, if wishes were horses then dwarves would ride.

Very much to his surprise, he found that he rather _liked _the dwarves. Laz was pleased to call herself a "gritty little bitch," and he couldn't help but agree with her assessment - _and_ her opinion that a "gritty little bitch" was a good thing to be. Varric was…well, he was as tricky and slick as a Wicked Grace dealer but he was also deeply pragmatic, which went a long way toward making up for other deficiencies in his character, such as the continual jesting, gabbing, and storytelling. And he did make the evening campfire a lively affair with his wild yarns.

And they were both good to have at your back in a fight. While not as swift as other masters of stealth and dual-weapons fighting, Laz was still a diminutive whirlwind and utterly without fear. Her strength was far greater than that of most dexterity-and-cunning experts, and her two waraxes sliced through most foes as easily as a knife sliced bread. The scars of her encounter with the mature dragon were mostly faded and her eyebrows had even begun to grow back, and she was actually rather unhappy about that. "I hoped I'd have a bitchin' gnarly scar to show off, but what the hell." Varric wasn't as _forward_ in battle, but he and Bianca were a force to be reckoned with. In all, Loghain was rather glad they'd "accidentally" joined forces. Not that he wasn't still going to keep a particularly close eye on the "purveyor of information."

Two days before they found the hot spring, the party happened upon a particularly vicious nest of spiders. After slaughtering the first wave it seemed they were home free, but then boiling up from a deep hole in the ground arose a monster, a spider larger than a dray horse, followed by a couple of genlocks of unusually ragged appearance even for darkspawn. And Loghain, who had faced down an Archdemon without blinking, was so revolted by the enormous arachnid that he actually hesitated. The spider lunged for him and its gigantic fangs might well have ended him then and there had Seanna not cast a quick spell of horrific despair over the creature, paralyzing it in a paroxysm of terror. This was not actually much of a help, since the creature's quivering legs, rigid mandibles, and ear-splitting shriek of horror was altogether more hideous than its usual aspect, but Loghain swallowed his reaction and plunged his blade into one of the largest of the creature's eight eyes. Elilia's greatsword ended the creature, while Laz and Varric swiftly brought down the genlocks. It was a fast victory, and no one was injured, but it was a disgusting upset all the same.

"_You're _scared of spiders," Varric pointed out wonderingly, as Loghain did his best to clean the filth off his sword.

"I most certainly am _not," _Loghain retorted indignantly.

"You most certainly _are." _The dwarf chuckled. "It's a good thing for you that you weren't with Hawke and me back in Kirkwall. Some of the spiders we killed in the caves around Sundermount or in the Deep Roads were big enough to make _that_ little guy shit himself."

"I am _not_ scared of spiders," Loghain insisted. "I happen to find them utterly repugnant, but that's not the same thing. For instance, I happen to find _you _utterly repugnant as well. But I am most definitely _not _afraid of you."

Champion chose that moment to bound over to him, tail wagging so vigorously that her entire rump swayed back and forth, carrying in her jaws a gnawed-off leg of the spider. She crouched down on her front legs in her "play with me" gesture, and Loghain blanched at the sight of the hairy appendage, still oozing dark green ichor. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and managed to speak sternly.

"Absolutely not. No, don't give me that look - if you want to play fetch, then you go and find yourself a proper stick. I am _not _throwing that thing."

Varric chuffed a deep, chesty rumble of laughter, and made it a point from then on to throw many sticks for Champion, with a leer at Loghain each time. Loghain ignored the jibes as best he could. The dwarf could think what he wanted: he was _not_ afraid of spiders, he was only disgusted by them, and the size of the thing had taken him off-guard. If he should happen upon _another_ so-outsized arachnid, Maker forfend, he wouldn't hesitate.

Still, he was probably more grateful than any of them to happen upon the hot spring. In its steaming mineral waters he could soak away the long, hard road and more importantly still, wash away the deep shuddering revulsion that gripped him every time he thought about that enormous spider. While the heat eased tense muscles his tense mind relaxed at last as well, and the memory was washed away until it was finally faded enough to be viewed in its proper perspective. Revolting or not, those spiders were a menace, and could not be allowed to thrive as they were doing. He would recommend patrols of soldiers on extermination missions, once matters with Orlais were settled.

They all took their turns soaking in the hot spring over the day and a half they spent lounging there, and it did them all a great service. Late on the second night, when the others were lazing off their dinner in the warmth of the fire, Loghain took the opportunity for a private bath.

Submerged to his shoulders in the steam-obscured waters, he allowed himself to doze lightly. In the morning they would set off again, and leave this pleasant spot behind for the marshes of the Wilds, never particularly pleasant even when they weren't Blighted. They could leave the great southern forest to rot, and the rest of Ferelden would never care, but he knew he couldn't leave the taint to fester and perhaps spread again. He would follow it into the Wilds - all the way to Ostagar, if it came to that - and expunge the corruption from Ferelden's soil once and for all. It would hardly be the first time he'd braved the land other more "civilized" Fereldens feared to tread without an army at their backs.

His mind sank deeper into sleep than he'd intended, and he was startled awake by the sound of someone slipping gently into the water. His eyes flew open, and he was relieved to see that it was Elilia. He'd feared it might be Varric, and he had never been one for the concept of male bonding in a communal bath. That was an _Orlesian_ thing.

"Don't mind if I join you, do you?" she asked, with a slight smile.

"Not in the least," he said. He held out his arm to her and she moved in close to let him embrace her. She rested her head on his shoulder and slipped an arm around his neck while the other hand toyed with his chest hair and the deliciously warm water worked its magic on their aching muscles. In all, it was the sort of luxury he thought he ought to have felt guilty about indulging.

"We're on the edge of the Wilds here, aren't we?" she asked after a moment.

"Pretty much. I reckon we should be out of the hinterlands and fully into Korcari by mid-day tomorrow."

"You know, each time we've planted the ashes, the effect seems to have spread further than the last time."

"So I've noticed."

"Don't you think, perhaps, that we've done enough, then? Surely this last dose has carried far into the Wilds, much further than we would ever go. Why don't we go back to Denerim now?"

He shook his head slowly. "I have to be _sure, _Elilia."

She pulled back a bit and looked him in the eye, her brow slightly furrowed. "I don't…want to go…_back there," _she said.

"The witch is dead, dearest."

She shook her head. "No no, although I seriously doubt that. I meant…_Ostagar."_

His arm tightened around her shoulders. "Was it that bad?"

"I don't know, but…it's in the past, and I'd prefer it stayed there." She could not tell him the things she'd seen when she returned, the hideous mockery the darkspawn had made of King Cailan's eerily preserved corpse. And she did _not_ want him to find out she'd taken the documents from Cailan's personal lockbox. It was hard to say how much evidence remained after so many years, but it was better to stay away, if possible. Alistair had his father's sword, and someday perhaps she could tell Loghain it was safely cached in the Royal Armory, but for now…no, therein dwelt monsters she did not care to confront at present. The reasons for staying away from the ill-fated battleground were as much practical as personal.

"I…suppose I could continue on alone," he said slowly. "At least, I could if any of you were any good at hunting. Laz has never held a bow in her life, and _Bianca_ makes a hellacious amount of noise. And if he actually managed to hit something, the quarrels rip great holes in the meat. Not sure you'd be able to feed yourselves. But you could go to Gwaren and supply yourself there - its only about a three days' trudge away, give or take, and I could leave you with a buck and a brace of rabbits."

She smacked his chest, hard, with an open hand. "You are _not_ going off into the Wilds alone, Ser."

"It wouldn't be the first time," he said. "Well technically I had _Maric_ with me, but at that point in his life there wasn't exactly a lot of difference between traveling _with_ him and traveling alone - except for the utter lack of peace and quiet."

"_Absolutely not. _Either we all go to Gwaren, or we all continue on. I don't mind going a bit further into the Wilds if we must, but surely we needn't go _all the way _to Ostagar?" She traced an outline around the muscles in his chest with a deliberately tantalizing finger. "Surely?"

"You minx, are you trying to seduce me into letting you have your own way?"

"Mm, I'm simply employing my powers of persuasion upon the man I intend to marry. If it _leads_ to seduction, so be it."

"Well keep it up, it might be working."

She chuckled and moved to straddle him, which brought much of her body out of the water. A near-full moon hung high overhead, illuminating her pale white skin, glistening wet and lovely. He reached up to her and she leaned into his hands and kissed him deeply. He rubbed lazy circles around her nipples with his thumbs while their tongues exchanged wordless pleasantries. The pleasant tension in his groin became a throbbing ache and he reached down and pressed a finger against her clitoris. Her body arched back spasmodically and she gasped, pushed almost to the point of orgasm just by that simple act. This put him in excellent position to use his mouth on her breasts, which opportunity he did not squander. He kept his fingers active, stroking and teasing, always just on the surface, and she knotted up her fists in his hair, almost completely out of control herself and urging him on.

"Dear Sweet Flaming Andraste, just take me _now, _dammit!" she gasped out at last.

It was his turn to chuckle then, deep and throaty, and he removed his hand from between her legs and reached up to take her by the wrist. He guided her hand from his hair to below his waist. "At your whim, my lady," he said.

She hesitated a moment, a bit surprised that he would leave the proceedings in her hands, so to speak. Then she blushed, stroked his penis with tenderness in her touch, and guided him into position. She settled herself on him, a smooth motion, a smooth sensation of sudden fullness. Her breath caught, and she sat stock still for a long heartbeat.

Loghain smiled up at her, reading her feelings in her face, perfectly content to let her take all the time she needed to adjust, to enjoy. He could easily lay here all night, admiring the curves of her breasts, the muscles in her arms and stomach, the way she felt from the inside out. Then she shuddered, her head dropped down below the line of her strong shoulders, and her hips began to move; a long, slow motion at first, then with increasing speed and urgency as her need built up inside of her. When in command of the pacing, perhaps because he was too old or just possibly just old enough, Loghain tended to take it slow and steady and draw things out. Elilia, this once at least, was destined to plough straight through to climax in short order. He watched her closely, waiting for that moment, and when he saw the rush overtake her he allowed himself release as well. She collapsed against him, panting and trembling, and he held her.

"I've been thinking," he said at last, slowly, and with a wry grin she could not see as it was hidden in her hair. "I don't think we need to go _all the way _to Ostagar…"

She burst out laughing and kissed his throat. "Came up with that idea all on your own, did you?"

"Someone or something may have exerted undue influence over me at some point, it's hard to recall precisely."

"Probably blood mages."

He chuckled and kissed the top of her head. "Lovely as it is to lay here with you, boiled crab is a great favorite in Gwaren and I'd much rather not be on the menu. I think it's time to get out."

She sighed. "And I suppose we _have_ to be fully attired when we walk back into camp."

"Ha! Unless you really _want_ to give them all such an intimate peek at our personal business."

"They're probably _asleep."_

"They're _never_ asleep."

"Oh, very well, then." She sighed, laughed, and stretched up to kiss his cheek. Then she pulled back, stared at him fixedly for a moment, and her lips split in a strange grin. She kissed his cheek again, with one hand stroking the other side of his face, and laughed a bit more.

"What?"

"I simply realized how very odd it is that despite being rather a ruggedly masculine, _hirsute_ man, I have never once felt so much as the faintest prickle of stubble on your face. I used to think you must shave twice a day, but I've never seen you shave _at all."_

She riffled the hair on his chest once, playfully, and climbed out of the hot spring to dry herself and dress, the incident momentary and already very nearly forgotten, but Loghain stayed where he was awhile longer, thinking dark thoughts. He didn't know why his physiology gave him chest hair but no beard, and few people had ever noticed that he remained perfectly clean-shaven despite the fact that he did not, in truth, own a razor, and the possible reason, if reason it was, was something no one needed to know about or speak of. But Elilia - she'd stood right by his shoulder in the Gauntlet, and she'd _seen _the spirit ape his mother…hadn't she?

She was already out of sight by the time he finally climbed out of the hot spring, and he dressed slowly, lost in thought and unbidden memories. Even if he were not distracted he might still never have noticed the ambush before it was too late. He found himself surrounded by a dozen Dalish elves, bows drawn and pointed directly at his chest.

"Hold, Shemlen," one of them, an older man with graying hair braided back tightly, said. "We mean no harm to you, but our Keeper would speak with you. Come."


	29. Chapter 29

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **This is an idea I've toyed with a lot, for various reasons depending on the fic I was writing. This time it just seems to me to be a good way to introduce yet another element of tension. If it seems like my tale includes a startling amount of lazy coincidence, all I can say is that it is deliberate. There is a Whisper in the Shadows…

* * *

**Chapter Thirty: Between Orlais and an Elven Ass**

The Dalish hunters took him quite a distance, several miles at least, to an encampment where he was paraded like a prisoner on the way to the gallows past lines of hard, suspicious tattooed faces with glittering night-eyes. They took him to an aravel set in the middle of the camp, before which stood a rather tall elven male dressed in fine robes, his silver hair streaked with vague memories of the brown it had once been. He looked somewhat familiar, and Loghain racked his memory to place the face.

"Aneth ara, human," this man said, with a slight inclination of his head. "My apologies for waylaying you, but I was tasked with delivering to you a message - and a gift."

"I know you," Loghain said slowly. "You were the one that took Maric and me to the old marsh witch, ages ago."

The elf inclined his head again, a bit further this time. "I am surprised you remembered me. I am Verrithal. At the time of our first meeting I was Keeper of the small scouting party that found you and your friend, First to the Keeper of the larger clan. Now I am myself its Keeper." He gestured to a campfire set about with low bench seats. "Please, sit."

Loghain crossed his arms over his chest and made a point of towering tall. "Thank you, I prefer to stand."

The Keeper seemed amused rather than offended. "Very well. I will not delay you more than necessary. The message I am to give you is from the Woman of Many Years, and it is not wise to act against her wishes. I am to offer you her congratulations on discovering a way to defeat the corruption of the land, and to convey to you the information that the Wilds are cleansed clear to the fortress of Ostagar and beyond. You need not travel any further south. She also wanted you to know that the township of Gwaren has had a particularly prosperous year, and are planning a grand Harvestmere celebration - which you and your companions will be in time to partake of if you leave for the east in the morning's first light."

Loghain was incredulous. "The Woman of Many Years? The _same _Woman of Many Years you handed me to before? I _killed_ her, more than a decade ago."

The Keeper smiled, rather sadly. "Such as she is may very well never die. Sometimes I think her true name is that of the Dread Wolf himself, Fen'Harel, but that is something the likes of me shall never know - I know only that like that Lord of Tricksters, she treads the Beyond and whispers her words from the shadows. Suffice to say that her tricks and magics are doubtless great enough even to overcome death itself - if it is so that she was ever truly dead at all."

He held out his hand. Upon his palm rested a ring intricately carved of shining white wood from an ancient sylvan. "She bade me give you this, and warn you to wear it always. Your enemy, she says, has set more of her pets to track you. This will keep them from finding you no matter what arts they employ, but she also said that you must be careful and continue to use your templar talents and your mage friend's litany to keep them from regaining some control of your mind. You know what to watch for - that sensation in your brain as of a hive of angry wasps."

Loghain shuddered, involuntarily. He'd felt that quite often in the past days, faintly, and drove it off with Cleanse or for a longer respite when Seanna read from the Litany of Adralla. He didn't want anything to do with the old marsh witch, alive or dead, but given this choice between possibly placing himself under the control of an agent whose motives were unclear, or leaving himself at the mercy of an agent whose motives were only too clear, he supposed it was a case of damned if you don't, damned if you do. He took the ring.

"Thank you for the warning," he said. His mouth felt a bit dry.

"Asha belannar also wished for me to convey to you her regrets that she could not, at this time, speak with you personally," the Keeper continued. "Urgent business in Orlais has delayed her return to Ferelden. But she wanted me to tell you that she will seek audience with you _soon._ It seems she has further business with you that must be handled personally."

"_Wonderful," _Loghain said, voice dripping sarcasm. "I look forward to that."

The Keeper actually chuckled slightly, with another of those slight bows. "She seems to favor you in some way, though that of course is difficult for me to say with certainty. I cannot say that you are not justified to be wisely suspicious of anything she has to offer you, but in the spirit of frankness I would recommend you do whatever you can not to arouse her ire. Asha belannar is friend to no one, but it does not necessarily follow that she must be enemy to _all."_

The Keeper spread his hands. "That is all the business I have with you, human, and I will not detain you longer. Dareth shiral - safe travels."

"Wait, Keeper." An elderly woman stepped into the light of the campfire, white hair pulled back in a tight bun, face lined with age and sternness beneath her vallaslin. "I would speak to the shemlen myself. Privately, if I may."

The Keeper's eyebrows registered a certain degree of surprise, but he made the aged woman a deeper and more formal bow than he had given Loghain and said, "If it is your wish, Hahren." He then retired behind the aravel and out of sight.

Loghain, for his part, gazed at the elven woman with a heartsick dread. The face he saw was cruelly twisted by age and by hate, but recognizable all the same. He knew before ever she spoke that he had no wish to hear anything she had to say, but he was helpless to forestall the ways fate had of laughing at him.

"Yours is a face I recognize," the woman said, her voice scornful. "Many years ago this clan passed through this part of Ferelden, and sent our hunters out to find food. They found instead a shemlen of enormous size, badly wounded from some great battle his kind waged against themselves. He was torn and bleeding dry, but still he carried upon his back _two_ of his fellows, more gravely wounded still. Our hunters admired his strength and his dedication to the lives of his friends, and they foolishly brought all three to our Keeper for healing. Despite her best efforts, the two humans he'd tried to save perished of their wounds."

She shook her head, as if her denial could negate the past. "The _giant _did _not _die, more's the pity. With time and care and the Keeper's magic, his wounds healed. Many in the clan were suspicious and afraid, and the da'len - children, before the marking of the vallaslin, such as I was myself - were kept well away. But others were fascinated by the shemlen, who lied to them with false gratitude and words of fellowship. One of those taken in by his lies was my elder sister, Nerissia."

Dimly, Loghain heard a commotion at the edge of the encampment, the loud barking of a dog and a woman's angry words. Elilia and Champion, he surmised, come to rescue him. But the old woman's story held him captive in a dreadful fascination, and he could not bestir himself. This was a story he'd known existed but which he himself had never heard.

The old woman, too, seemed unable to stop herself, decades of hate and anger that had poisoned her life spilled forth as though at the bursting of a dam.

"Nerissia was a young hunter, with the marks of Mythal drawn upon her pretty face but newly. She wanted to know more about the shemlen, she believed that the Dalish could come to some sort of _understanding_ with them. She saw the giant as a means to begin bartering some sort of _peace." _She scoffed bitterly and continued. "He plied her with smiles and pretty words, and she fell under his spell. When at last he was mended the clan made him return from whence he came, but the damage was already done. He did not leave alone, you see. _My sister _went with him, forsaking her clan, her family, her people, _everything_ she once held dear, to be with the cunning trickster who'd deceived her."

She eyed him with undisguised distaste. "Nerissia's name was never to be spoken again, nor the name of the foul shemlen who took her from us, but as Hahren it is given to me to say the hard words when they must be remembered. The shemlen's name was _Gareth Mac Tir, _may the Dread Wolf take him."

Loghain's own voice came to his ears as if from elsewhere, perhaps the Fade. "My father, though I suppose you already knew that. And Nerissia was my mother. Would it pain you to learn that she was murdered?"

"My fool of a sister has been dead to me since she left us. Any fate she met with after that was no more than her due."

A white-hot rage surged up in his heart at those words. He struggled against it, recognizing in some small piece of his brain that much of this woman's coldness was inspired by the pain of her own loss, a coldness he understood as he had embraced it for much of his life. He heard behind him the steady, reasoning voice of the Keeper, attempting to calm the ire of Elilia and the still-snarling Champion, and the sound of another snarling dog which was no doubt Haakon. They sounded much closer than before, either because he was hearing them better or because they were bashing their way into the Dalish camp. That wouldn't go over well, he supposed.

"Please, good woman - your man is unharmed," he heard the Keeper saying. "He would have been returned to you before now, except our venerable Hahren wished to speak to him herself, in private. I am sure their palaver will be concluded soon, and then you may all return to your people. There is no need for violence."

"So you keep saying," Elilia said, "but I won't know that until I see Loghain for myself."

Loghain knew he had to say something to this old woman, the aunt who resented his very existence, and he knew he needed to speak quickly before Elilia pushed her way into the conversation. He tried to school his temper, to speak dispassionately, but it was impossible. The subject was one that had lost none of its power to tear at his very soul.

"My mother sacrificed everything for her family," he began, and the elf burst out angrily.

"She _betrayed_ her family."

"She sacrificed one family for sake of the other," Loghain corrected. "Not by her preference, I'm certain, but simply by the way the world - the 'shemlen' world _and_ the Dalish world - _forced_ her to choose. She gave up every shred of her former identity and remade herself into wife and mother. Everything she said, everything she did, everything she _was_ reinforced how important that identity was to her. She loved my father, even though the world made that so very difficult for her, and she loved _me_. She did everything she could to protect me from the way the world would look upon me as a half-blood. And the people who killed her - who raped her and slit her throat, before my very eyes? They killed her not because she was an elf or because she was a Dalish, but just because she was the wife of a peasant who had the audacity to stand up to them. And _my father _- who never uttered a false word to anyone in his life, who was a gentle man who strove to live in peace when he could - hunted the bastards down and slew them all. Because he loved her, better than he loved anyone else on this earth - better even than he loved me. And all the rest of his days he mourned her, and hated himself for his inability to protect her. And in the end he gave his life to save a half-baked royal outcast because Maric was Ferelden's _last hope _of casting out the bastards whose arrogance and sense of entitlement made them feel they were justified in what they did when they murdered _my beautiful Dalish mother, _and he essentially sold me into service to ensure that Maric succeeded."

He sensed rather than saw Elilia at his back, and knew she must have heard most of his words. Oh well, too late to stop himself now, and he couldn't even if he wanted to.

"You say that my mother was dead to you from the moment she chose my father over her clan. You clearly find my very existence an affront to everything you hold dear in this world. So be it. But I'll tell you now, my _unworthy shemlen self _is all that remains of your sister, for my own daughter knows nothing of her antecedents and never shall - not because I am ashamed of my mother, but to carry on her own work of keeping my child safe from the world that would hate her for something beyond her control. But if there were some way that I could bring my mother back from wherever she has gone, just for a moment, so that she could meet her granddaughter and her great-grandchildren face-to-face one time, I would trade you and every other bigoted bitch or bastard the world over, human or elf or dwarf or bloody qunari, for that chance."

The old woman's face registered some shock at his tirade, but then slid into an expression of derision. "You have your mother's temper, I see," she said.

"So I've been told," Loghain said with some force, "by no less an authority than my father. I wouldn't know for myself, for she never showed it to me. But it's a temper that has helped one King overthrow the very tyranny that took my mother's life, and it's a temper that helped this woman behind me slay an Archdemon and defeat a Blight. It is also a temper that is helping _another_ King beat back the wolves who seek to reclaim our homeland for their own nefarious uses today. If more Dalish had_ my mother's temper, _and but a fraction of her courage, perhaps you'd have your own homeland now."

He spun quickly on his heels then, turning to a very startled-looking Elilia and a pair of somewhat bewildered mabari. "Come, my love - let us leave this place. Champion, to heel." On the way out of the camp at a very fast stride he spared a moment's notice for the shell-shocked Keeper. "You seem a decent man, Varrithal, though your habit of setting out ambushes instead of invitations is wearing to say the least. Safe travels to you."

* * *

Over the following days Elilia's attitude toward Loghain was…different. Distant. Almost dismissive. When camp was made they still shared the single large tent to sleep, but she left space between their bodies she'd never allowed before. Funny, but he'd never considered for a moment that his blood status would bother _her, _of all people. But she was born to the nobility, and as egalitarian as she seemed, perhaps a few old prejudices remained. Or perhaps she was angry with him for not disclosing that information to her.

It seemed obvious now that whatever it was she'd seen in the Gauntlet of Trials, it hadn't been his mother. He wondered mightily what she _had_ seen, but couldn't quite bring himself to ask. He grieved the loss of her camaraderie as much as the loss of her affections, and he was a quiet man indeed on the long walk to Gwaren, for whether the witch's message was true or not, he could no longer bring himself to venture further into the Wilds when his company no longer seemed to Elilia's taste.

Champion plodded close on his heels the whole way, ears and stumpy tail a-droop. She sensed that her master and his mate were growing apart, though she could not for the life of her understand why. Evidently there was something badly wrong with Haakon's mistress, for Champion's master, of course, was perfect in every way, though Haakon didn't seem to agree and it created a schism between the siblings. It was regrettable, but if it was necessary then she would take it upon herself to find the Master a more satisfactory female. She would choose her Master over her brother any day.

Their other companions were eerily silent on the three-day hike, as well, sensing the discord, but even though no one said a word to anyone about the sudden tension in the air clear loyalties were being drawn. Standing alongside Elilia and Haakon were the dog Paragon and the women Laz and Seanna, the dwarf was evidently positive that whenever anything bad happened in a relationship it was obviously the _man's_ fault, and Seanna looked unsure of anything except her status as Elilia's best friend and supporter, and Paragon simply followed her mistress' lead. Varric seemed to take Loghain's side, perhaps not because he believed that he was _not _to blame for the thoughtful frown on Elilia's face but rather because no one else would stand with him except his dog.

They found the road leading into the town on the third night, and camped alongside it. They ate a quiet dinner of rabbit stew, of which they were all growing rather tired, and sat around the campfire with nothing to say. It was an uncomfortable evening, like the two evenings before it.

Finally Elilia spoke, for the first time since the Dalish camp. "Loghain, we need to talk…about what you said."

He sighed. "I knew this was coming eventually, but I was rather beginning to think you'd leave me gasping 'til we reached Gwaren. Speak."

"Did you…" She trailed off, her expression one of uncertainty, and started over. "Did you…_mean_ it? Or were you just upset and lashing out?"

This was very much _not _in the realm of things he had expected her to say, and for the life of him he couldn't figure out what she must be referring to. Was she angry with him for saying that he would trade his aunt for a moment again with his mother?

"I…think I may require clarification," he said carefully. "I'm not sure which part of the things I said is what you mean."

"I'm talking about…what you called me."

He had called her something? He racked his brain. Was she really upset because he'd called her…?

"I called you 'my love,' didn't I?" he asked, in some confusion.

She blushed brilliantly and studied the heels of her boots for a minute before she spoke again, in a shy, quiet voice that was very unlike her. "Yes. Did you mean it?"

He briefly considered lying, not wanting to hurt her any more than he already had, but finally said, "You _are_ my love, Elilia. Even if I am not yours."

He would not have thought her cheeks could grow any redder, but she proved him wrong. "I never…I never thought you would…or that you would ever actually _say_ it."

Varric let out a noisy breath. "Ancestors' asses, that's what this long gathering storm is all about? A love confession? I would have guessed by the noises you two make at night that you were both pretty well apprised of your feelings for each other by this point."

"_Sex _and _love_ don't always go together," Elilia shot back, with some of her old self in her voice. She looked at Loghain, with something of an apology in her eyes. "I thought…well, I knew we were friends, and I guess I knew you found me attractive enough, but I figured that this whole business of you and I _marrying_…well, I supposed that was just a means to an end."

"The end being that I would get my Teyrnir back?" Loghain said, with a slight twist to his lips that might have been the beginnings of a smile or a scowl. He shook his head and the forelock of his hair fell in front of his eyes. "Maker's breath, Elilia, if you want Gwaren you can damned well keep it. I never wanted it in the first place."

"I _don't _want it," Elilia said. "Not alone, at any rate. You're familiar with the way the teyrnir works, and I'm not. The idea, in my mind at any rate, was to share the work."

Loghain looked at her, brow furrowed, blue eyes piercing. "How much of my argument with the Dalish Hahren did you overhear, Elilia?"

She blushed again, and looked away. "Enough. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone what I heard."

"Did you know before?"

She laughed, a brief sound without a great deal of humor in it. "Not an inkling. It's not like you look the part or anything."

"Now that you do know, do you still want to share _anything_ with me?"

Finally she met his eyes again, the blue of hers nearly identical in intensity. "I want to share _everything."_

He held her gaze for a long moment, scrutinizing her expression, the pitch of her voice, the shallow, rapid rate of her breathing. She was flushed, her lips slightly parted. His own mouth curved up in a slow smile and he rose to his feet and crossed to her side of the campfire. He held out a hand to her and when she placed her own within it he pulled her up and into his arms, whereupon he kissed her. Champion picked her head up off her paws and panted happily, tail wagging, and Haakon immediately rose and crossed to where she lay, sniffed noses with her in conciliatory fashion, and flopped down to sleep beside her with his muzzle resting on her shoulder.

"By the stone, I'll never understand love," Laz said. "Three days she spends giving the man the silent treatment so bad I'm just looking for an excuse to cut the big guy's balls off, and it was all just womanly megrims. I am _never_ tying my chassis to any man permanent-like. Ain't worth it, not if it turns tough women into twitter-pated idiots."

"Love makes fools of us all, Spunky. Some seem to think it's worth it." Varric's tone suggested he didn't quite agree.

"I bet she's up the spout," Laz said knowledgeably. "Hormonal. What do you think, Seanna? You mages can tell that kind of stuff, right?"

Seanna protested weakly. _"Laz…"_

The lovers, of course, noticed none of this. Loghain broke the kiss at last and drew away from Elilia slightly, his fingers still resting lightly on the upturned line of her jaw. "Autumn is short and typically rather cold and damp and miserable in these parts," he said, in a low voice. "Our luck has held so far, but it's been quite chilly this past couple of nights."

"I think we'll be warm enough tonight," Elilia said, her own voice husky and a trifle vague, as if she wasn't paying the slightest attention to the words of her own mouth. She left no space between their bodies that night, no space at all.


	30. Chapter 30

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **Maker's breath, thirty chapters! And I still have no clear idea of exactly how long this thing will string out. Just given the amount of crap cluttering up my highly disorganized outline, I may not even be halfway done, although I do have some idea how it will end (my writing style is fluid, to say the least, so there's no guaranteeing my outline means anything). Hope you're up for a long ride…

(Beldam Prima, apropos of nothing, is my great-grandmother, an Italian immigrant who was nothing if not a phenomenal cook. I think she used magic. "Heavenly Glop" is my own recipe, a pasta dish comprised of whatever I happen to have laying around and cheese. Lots of cheese.)

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-One: Harvestmere**

In the morning, after a relatively leisurely stroll of but a mile or two along the nicely-kept packed earth track and a rather thin and unsatisfying breakfast of leftover stew, the smells of cooking wafted to their appreciative noses. It was a heady mixture, a conglomeration of a hundred different chefs preparing a thousand different foods, but after so long living on what little they'd brought with them (hardtack, mostly, after the first few days) and what meat and greens were to be had, even the not-too-harmonious combination of boiling seafood and baking fowl and whatever else was being prepared struck upon their senses as something devoutly glorious.

They crested a small hill and came upon a pretty picture, the village of Gwaren and its sturdy, practical Keep nestled between the trees that were one-half of its livelihood and the sea that made up most of the other half. It was a homely little town, really, but the way it sat its little hollow was picturesque.

Varric took a deep breath, and sighed it out happily at the same time his stomach gave an audible rumble. "Is this heaven?" he asked, with a touch of whimsy.

"No, it's Gwaren," Loghain said, quite seriously. "It really has grown, I see. A lot of new buildings have sprung up. Glad to see they've kept some sense of organization, at least, but those stacks look a bit like death traps, don't they?"

The "stacks" to which he referred were a long double line of tall wooden buildings, well-built but a bit grim in their sturdy plainness. Elilia understood what he meant - the buildings were large enough to contain a score of families each, and their height, coupled with the wooden construction, meant cookfires and careless smokers would pose a grave danger.

"I bet that's where the people who live in them have to go to cook," Elilia said, and pointed out a long, low building set some distance away from the others as well as from the crowding forest. Numerous chimneys protruded from the sloped shake roof, all smoking merrily, adding to the general light haze of good wood smoke rising from the chimneys of every other proper house in town.

"Inconvenient," Laz said. "Why didn't they just make the buildings out of stone if they're so worried about fire?"

Loghain laughed. "Spoken like a true dwarf. Gwaren boasts plenty of _rocks, _Laz - many of the houses down there are built of them, and _all_ of the local fencing. But the people are not stonemasons and there is no quarry. Gwaren is a wood-built town, predominantly, both structurally and economically. Even the Keep is mostly wooden. Only thing they mine down there is salt."

"Well, you'd think they could at least clear out a bit more space from the forest," Varric said. "Spread the buildings out instead of piling them to the sky."

"Oo, bad idea - at least if I know anything about the Brecilian Forest," Elilia said.

"True enough. The woodcutters who ply their trade here are the bravest men I know, even more courageous than those who risk the sea for crab and lobster. No one, no matter how stout-hearted, would dare incur the forest's wrath by taking one stick more than she's willing to give. Gwaren has to exist within the space she's offered, and that's an end to it."

"Why did they bloody well build it here, then?" Varric demanded.

"Ask your ancestors," Loghain said. "Gwaren started out as one of their surface trading posts, though who they were trading with I've no idea. Alamarri, I suppose, or maybe Clayne. The Avaar don't seem to have made much of an impact here, at least."

"Might have been elves," Elilia said. "There's a very strange set of ruins not all that far from here."

"I remember," Loghain said. "I suppose it's possible."

He warned the group of the isolationist attitude of the locals. "Unless there's been enough outsiders come in to change things, the true native Gwarener always looks down a bit on those poor fools from 'Away.' In all the years I was Teyrn, I never managed to completely live down the stigma of being a 'foreigner.' And I'll tell you also, to Gwareners it is always 'the Queen,' and 'twas even so during the reign of Cailan. I can't imagine they've had enough contact with Alistair to conceive a love for him great enough to overpower their loyalty to Anora. She's 'theirs.' But they're not exactly _unkind, _just a bit suspicious."

"As long as they feed us," Varric said, reverently.

"I'm sure there's no fear they won't," Loghain said. "Gwareners are good at feeding people, they seem to be able to do it even when they have no food."

They went down into the town, then, and the streets thronged with people preparing for the holiday celebration, cooking right out in the open in some cases, offering food and good tidings to passers by. It was easy enough to tell the true natives from the new settlers, even without Loghain's muttered commentary on "local" and "not local." The refugees mostly didn't recognize anyone of the party, and if they had any hospitality to offer it was of the honest sort openly offered to anyone on so festive an occasion, but they tended to be a bit more open and generous with the humans and the dogs than the elf and the dwarves. The ones that did recognize either the former Teyrn of Gwaren or the fabled Hero of Ferelden made themselves ridiculous, falling over themselves to offer anything and everything they had.

The true natives, on the other hand, were not exactly hospitable toward anyone though their generosity on this day at least was great and divided equally among the races. None of them seemed to know Elilia when they laid eyes on her, but all of them knew Loghain - and he knew them, and greeted them by name. None of them seemed particularly surprised at his return. It was difficult to tell, but they seemed pleased to see him.

"Harvestmere is my new favorite holiday," Varric said, munching the drumstick of a roast turkey he held in one hand while the other gripped the handle of an enormous mug of Gwaren ale. "It was never taken as a very big deal in Kirkwall. In fact, I don't remember ever actually celebrating it before. Just another day for making deals, in the Merchants' Guild. Ancestors' asses, this ale is _good."_

"Strong, too, so proceed with caution," Loghain advised.

"What's this?" Seanna asked of a woman tending a coal-burning brazier on which were roasting long strips of flesh.

"Wilds Crawler," the woman said crisply, and turned the meat with a fork. With the other side revealed, it was easy to see that she was cooking nothing more nor less than an unskinned snake, sliced in half lengthwise. Seanna jerked away in shock.

Loghain snorted a laugh at her reaction. He'd eaten snake and _worse _before ever coming to this place. The woman took a sharp knife and cut away a good-sized chunk of meat, skewered it upon a sharpened wooden rod, and offered it to him. He accepted with a nod of thanks and bit into the crunchy flesh and chewed, enjoying more the blanching faces of his companions than the meat.

"Tastes like chicken," he explained, once he'd swallowed. "Really _crunchy_ chicken, with a bit of a kick to it."

"I think I'll pass," Varric said, weakly, but Laz stepped up to the challenge.

"Hey, not bad," she said. "Kind of like deepstalker."

The next station was boiling chicken feet, the taloned digits curling gruesomely in the pot, the one after that dishing out great steaming bowls of fish chowder. Clams and oysters were fried up to order by the next streetside chef, and beside him stood a man nearly identical in appearance who dipped abalone in a batter and fried them up in a deep pan of boiling oil. Varric went back for seconds, thirds, and fourths from him.

"Let's stop in here," Loghain said, pointing out a large house with a wide-open front door, through which people poured in and out. The ones coming out had a distinct look of repletion to them.

"A native?" Elilia asked.

"A longtime-resident," Loghain corrected. "Beldam Prima is from Tevinter, originally, but she's lived in Gwaren for decades."

"A Tevinter? In Gwaren?" Elilia was surprised.

"She wanted to get as away from the Qunari as was possible, or that's the local legend. I think she may have been from Seheron."

They went inside. A gigantic steaming cauldron was set over an open fire in the middle of the dirt floor, and a short little woman wider than she was tall presided over it like a witch in a fable. People came to her and held out large bowls carved out of great loaves of round bread, and she ladled into them a thick, gloppy…_something._

"What _is_ that?" Elilia whispered to Loghain.

"Her accent is so thick it would be easier to understand her if she'd just speak Tevinter," he whispered back, "but whatever it is, it's delicious."

They each took a bread bowl and queued up. The beldam broke into a toothless grin when she saw Loghain, and a flurry of words that were almost utterly incomprehensible. She dished out her glop and sent a little elf girl scurrying with a gesture, to return moments later with a bowl of something white and cold from the icebox outside. The beldam spooned up a dollop of that for each of them, and Elilia was surprised to see that it was sour cream.

"Er…that's a lot of sour cream…" she ventured tentatively, but Loghain was unperturbed. He mixed his own blot into the glop with a fork.

"It's good, Elilia, trust me."

She shrugged and mixed the glob into her glop. Up close, the stuff appeared to be a heavy stew of ground-up meat and something that looked like soft oyster shells. "That's not what they are, I hope?" she asked.

Loghain shook his head. "They're made out of wheat flour. Just eat."

She obeyed, not without hesitation. That first small bite exploded in her mouth like First Day fireworks. She recognized the taste of tomato, a dozen different herbs and spices, and the rich surprise of several varieties of cheese melted into the sauce. Instead of overpowering her as she'd expected it to, the sour cream blended perfectly and smoothed out the whole concoction.

"Mmmmmmm." Seanna closed her eyes and enjoyed the mouthful of flavor. "That is _heavenly."_

"This definitely makes up for the chicken feet and roasted wharf rat," Varric said.

"I _liked_ the chicken feet," Laz said, but she tucked into her bowl with gusto. The dogs, too, were given small plates of heavenly glop, and ate as happily as the people did.

As they were eating the last of their sauce-soaked bread bowls, a man walked in to the beldam's house, distinguished from the others who entered and left at will by the fine clothes he wore. He begged off the old woman's offer of food and came straight for their party, though he seemed not to notice any of them except Loghain. When he was still a few steps away, he dropped to one knee with his head bowed.

"My Lord, at your service."

"Hello, Cort," Loghain said, sounding as if he were not terribly happy to see the man, but resigned. "How flies the Teyrnir?"

"All is well, my Lord, for now. The Queen has sent workers and resources for the fortification of the harbor, and the improvements are well under way. Your idea, I presume?"

"My suggestion," Loghain corrected.

"Word has come from the outlying freeholds that border the Blight lands - they're saying that they've become fertile again. I cannot believe that your sudden arrival in town close on the heels of this miracle is a mere coincidence."

"Believe whatever makes you feel comfortable, Cort."

The man laughed slightly and bowed forward from the waist a few degrees. "You will be staying with us, I hope, my Lord? I have taken the liberty of having your rooms made up, the moment I heard you were here."

"I _and my companions _will be staying tonight, Cort, but on the morrow we must move on," Loghain said. "I trust you can see to ensuring their comfort as well as my own?"

The man blinked at the others in some surprise, as if he'd only just noticed them. "Oh. Yes, my Lord, of course. I will make arrangements at once." The man turned sharply on his heel and strode briskly from the house, evidently intent upon his task.

"My former Seneschal," Loghain explained. "Wondered whether he got to keep his job in the aftermath."

"You know, for someone who 'never overcame the stigma of being foreign,' people around here really seem to like you," Varric pointed out.

"Cort hails from Redcliffe," Loghain said. "I would've preferred a local man, someone a bit less…zealous…but few of the natives have any education at all. And they resist efforts to introduce the concept of schooling, too."

"I'm not talking about just Messer Worshipful," Varric said. All the natives seem to look at you like you belong to them."

"_To _them perhaps," Loghain said, with a bit of a laugh, "but never _of _them."

Elilia finished the last scrap of her bread bowl and yawned. "I'm stuffed, and all I can think about is taking a nap. Why don't we head to the Keep for a good old Antivan siesta? I'd…like a chance to speak with you in private, anyway, Loghain." Her eyes communicated something profound, and Loghain knew that at last he'd hear the truth of her opinions on his elven ancestry. With a faint, rueful smile, he nodded. It certainly didn't take her three days of silence to come to terms with his offhanded "my love."


	31. Chapter 31

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **If you wondered why my last chapter was so short, _this_ chapter is why. Tough to write, and not because I didn't know what to say.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Two: Hard Knocks**

"Oh what beautiful gardens," Seanna said, as they stepped through the gates into the courtyard of the Keep proper and found themselves surrounded by late-blooming autumn roses. "I was expecting more Gwaren austerity here. Who planted them all?"

"Teyrna Celia," Loghain said, a bit curtly. He ushered them through the courtyard at speed, as if it were a place he didn't care to linger long, though the dogs particularly seemed inclined to dawdle. A guardsman opened the main doors for them and gave a smart salute. Elilia wondered if he was always so well-disciplined, particularly on a holiday, or only when in view of his former Teyrn.

Seneschal Cort met them inside and favored them with a bow, and said that rooms were available for all of them. He led them to the living quarters and Loghain found with little surprise that he was installed in the same suite of rooms he had occupied as Teyrn, not noticeably altered from those bygone days. Indeed, when he opened the door of the wardrobe curiously, he found his own clothes still hanging inside, smelling strongly of camphor.

A bit unnerved by the discovery, Loghain turned to the window and stood looking out of it for a long time, restlessly fiddling with the sylvanwood ring on his finger. Since he first put it on he felt different, as if a scarcely-noticed tickle in his blood had been soothed, and the buzzing in his head had faded considerably as well, but he worried. Maybe the Orlesians couldn't track him any longer, but what could the witch do to him? He supposed it didn't matter much in the end. It seemed he'd underestimated that particular opponent considerably.

_She seems to favor you, _the Dalish Keeper had said, but he'd seen no sign of that himself in meeting her, even before he'd killed her - or whatever it was he'd done when he drove his sword into the skull of the high dragon whose form she had assumed. Granted, he'd never exactly attempted to speak civilly to the witch, either on that first long-ago meeting when he was but a stubborn boy with a chip on his shoulder larger than his head, or that final time when he'd been brought to the little hut for the sole purpose of ending the witch's life. In his experience, when he killed things they _stayed dead,_ and the fact that the witch had _not _bothered him a great deal. What sort of magic granted that kind of immortality?

He heard Champion grunt from her chosen space on the braided rug at the foot of the bed and it made him smile despite himself. The dog had eaten so many handouts that her belly was distended to twice its size and she actually waddled when she walked. She was sound asleep but somewhat disturbed thanks to the efforts her digestive system was being put through to process so much food. He hadn't eaten all that much himself but it was still quite a bit more than he'd been eating lately, and it made him a little tired and lazy.

There was a knock from the corridor. "Enter," he said. The door opened just enough to allow Elilia to slip through the gap.

She'd taken off her armor, and stood there in her loose blouse and leather breeches with her hair down and a thoughtful frown on her face.

"You want to talk," Loghain said unnecessarily. He gestured to a chair. "Have a seat."

She ignored the chair in favor of the bed, and perched herself on the edge of it. She patted the mattress next to her invitingly and he sat down, a bit warily.

"I expect you already realized that it didn't take me three days to wrap my head around what you called me," she said softly.

"I know."

"I always thought myself so high-minded. My initial reaction…shamed me."

He didn't have any ready response to that, and she didn't seem to expect him to speak. She sat for a minute with her head lowered. When she spoke again she did so in a rush. "My cousin, Arl Bryland…_he's_ half-blood, too. It's not exactly uncommon, after all, particularly for the nobility. I shouldn't have been shocked by the idea."

He snorted. "That's probably exactly why you _were_ shocked," he said. "Elf blood mixed with _noble_ isn't terribly rare, though Leonas' appointment to the arling was one of the major affronts to the Landsmeet when Maric began setting the nation to rights during the Restoration, even though the rest of the Brylands were dead. But my blood _isn't_ noble. My blood is as common as clay. And if the bannorn had known it wasn't just common but half-_elven, _they'd have raised arms against their king rather than let him make a Teyrn of me. But in fairness, Maric didn't know it, either. Perhaps I ought to have told him, but I doubt it would have made a difference in his decision. He could be remarkably stubborn once he had an idea in his head, and he had dreams of making Ferelden a land where elves could live among humans as equals."

"Your parents…they loved each other?"

"Yes."

"Were they…_married?"_

The doubt in her voice made him laugh, a harsh bark of sound. "You know, I asked my father that very question once when I was a lad - I believe my exact phrasing was, 'Father, am I a bastard?' His response was to pat me on the head very kindly and say, 'Only every now and then, Pup.' So I don't know whether or not my parents were married in the eyes of the law and the Maker or by some heathen ritual or merely mutual consent, but _they _considered it a bonded marriage and so shall I."

She was silent for a moment, thoughtful and considering. "Has Anora really no idea?"

"I daresay that girl has _plenty _of ideas, she always has, but no, she doesn't know she's quarter-blood."

"I'd say it's past time you told her, don't you?"

"And what purpose would that serve, except to upset and endanger her?" he demanded. "The more people who know the more trouble it is to keep it quiet, and if word got out that the queen's blood was common _and_ impure the Chantry would have her marriage annulled and the banns would have her ousted from the throne faster than you can blink. 'Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.'"

"It's not like _she's_ going to tell anyone," Elilia said. "And if you think _I _can't be trusted to stay quiet then you're quite welcome to kill me. She deserves to know."

"Why do you think this is so important?" he asked. "She can never _know _who my mother was, she died ages ago. All she can really know now is that she was an elf."

"You can _tell_ her who your mother was. It's important to know where you come from - it's the only way to know where you're going. Tell her what kind of woman she was, what sacrifices she made for you and your father, how much they loved each other and what they had to overcome to be together. Tell her the little things that you remember, even if you think she'll consider them unimportant, and tell her the big things, too - even tell her how your mother died, because she needs to remember now more than ever why Ferelden doesn't want to bear the yoke of Orlesian occupation ever again. Tell her about your father, too, and your grandparents, and any other family you had. Andraste's ass, tell her about your _dog."_

That startled him a bit, and then he grimaced. "I didn't know you were listening."

"Kiveal couldn't keep a secret to save his life," she said, primly. _"I _had to drag every bloody word out of you with a chain fall, so it figures that the only time you'd unburden yourself to tell an actual unprompted _story_ about your past it would be to the hound. If I know anything about you at all then it's a dead surety that Anora knows nothing about any of this."

"I…don't actually have any other family that I know of," he said haltingly. "If mother ever mentioned anything even remotely Dalish she'd clam up instantaneously, and father never spoke - of _anything, _really. I don't even know where he came from originally. I know he wasn't native to Oswin, where our freehold was, but only because the men in town said as much."

"A tradition of silence it's high time you _broke," _she said. "Anora needs to know everything you can tell her, so she can know herself and where she comes from. I…would _like_ to know these things, because I would like to know _you_. I've always felt that I understood you, the way you think and why you act, but I'll never be able to understand completely until I understand what made you who you are. But I won't press you. I know you're adverse to storytelling."

"I…suppose I ought to tell you," he said, slowly. "It's not like you don't already know the only _dangerous _secret of my family that I am aware of."

She smiled and kissed his cheek. "You can take your time, I won't push. I just want to know one thing right now, and I'll leave you be until another time."

"What's that?" he asked.

"Were you _really_ raised on a farm? Anora seems to have her doubts, and frankly so do I. You don't learn to fight like you do by driving a plough or reaping wheat."

"Oh really? A scythe can be a formidable weapon. Perhaps one day I'll tell you about the little farm girl who attacked an entire gang of highwaymen that had waylaid me on the road to Denerim."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Cauthrien?"

"Indeed."

"Did she _actually _save your life that day, or…?"

"I_ may _have killed the last of the bandits before she made it all the way across the field, but her charge was quite impressive regardless. The reaper she wielded was larger than she was, by quite a lot."

Elilia chuckled. "Hard to picture. But you sidestepped the original question. Farmer or not?"

"I was born on a farm, and was raised there until the Orlesians took it away from us. I don't think my _father_ was a born farmer, however. He was a soldier in King Brandel's army before it was defeated, which is evidently what led him to meet my mother. I suppose he lost heart when the King was killed, or perhaps just his taste for bloodshed, but he put down his sword for a time and picked up a plough instead. I can't say that our harvests were ever any too impressive, but he had a fine way with horses. Raising Ferelden Cob was how we kept the farm a going concern, up until the lords imposed their killing taxes."

"And he taught you to fight."

He shook his head. "My father had a head for strategy, and I learned much by watching him. But he favored the greatsword, as you do, and wasn't exactly skilled with anything smaller. No, my mother taught me most of my fighting skills - dagger, longsword, and bow - and I picked up the shield for the first time during the Rebellion. Maric said I needed it, since I seemed bound and determined to use _myself_ as a shield. Wilhelm was so tired of fixing up cracked ribs and punctured lungs that he threatened to refuse me healing the next time I cleverly blocked a war hammer with my chest."

Elilia snorted laughter. "Yet still they never forced a helmet upon you?"

"Maric claimed we'd never face an enemy that would be able to reach so high, and Wilhelm said it would make no difference if I _did_ take a blow, as my head was made of harder stuff than that of his golem. Truth is I flatly refuse to wear a helmet - I can't see or hear for shit inside a tin can, and I start feeling too closed in. Plate armor is confining enough."

"You wore that helmet I took off the Hurlock General at the Battle of Denerim," Elilia pointed out.

"Only during the fight against the Archdemon, in case you didn't notice. It bore some enchantment that rendered the creature's breath relatively ineffectual against me."

"I _wondered _how you managed to plough right through that miasma while the rest of us were twitching in pain," she said. "Thanks for sharing."

"Difficult to share _one helmet, _isn't it?" he pointed out. "And the reason you gave it to me, as I recall, is because it was too big for you and too small for the Sten. I figured it meant that the rest of you were free to use up those balms the marsh witch made for you."

"Fair point. So what, then - your mother took you out behind the barn and taught you to spar?"

"More or less. Mostly, though, we went into the woods out back of the house, and she taught me woodlore - I suppose you could say that was my one inheritance from my Dalish ancestry. She taught me how to shape and string my own bow, and how to chip out stone arrowheads and fletch my own arrows. She said it would be useful to know in case things ever got so bad that I had to live off the land - I guess that means she had something of a gift for prophecy. Sometimes out there she started to forget that I was human, and she'd _almost_ let slip something that was very decidedly Dalish. When she taught me how to skin a buck she put my hands on the hilt of the knife and said, 'And now we say…' and then shut her mouth so tight her lips disappeared, and just showed me how to make the cut. I think she was on the verge of teaching me some Dalish prayer to their gods, or something."

"Why didn't she want you to know such things?" Elilia asked.

"I can't rightly say for sure," he said. "I do know, however, that she went very far out of her way to ensure that no one in Oswin knew that I was the son of an elf. I suppose she didn't want me to know anything that might slip out someday in front of the wrong person, like one of the sisters from the local Chantry. I was already a favorite target of theirs since our family never went to mass."

"So you learned nothing whatsoever about the Dalish from her, other than basic arrowcraft?"

He shook his head. "In fact, the first time I encountered Dalish I couldn't be sure whether or not I'd heard they _ate_ people. I couldn't exactly imagine that of my mother, but she always looked wild enough, to me. Those tattoos she wore set her apart from the women of Oswin more than her pointy ears ever did. I was absolutely fascinated by those tattoos, when I was a pup. I always wanted to know what they meant, but she never would tell me. And when I was eight or nine years old and declared I wanted to have _my_ face tattooed she sat me down and explained to me in _no uncertain terms _that I was never again to entertain the thought."

Elilia smiled ruefully. "I wonder what she would have thought of _me," _she said.

"If you mean your tattoo, I'm not sure. I don't think she'd have minded any, since you've no reason to fear that anyone will take you for an elf."

She looked at him, close unto six and a half feet tall and nearly as broad across the shoulders, and burst into laughter. He knew exactly what had made her mirthful, and smiled thinly himself.

"I wasn't very big when I was a child," he explained. "Rather spindly, actually."

She composed herself. "So your father was a great fighter, and your mother was a great fighter. Why did they not fight the Orlesians?"

"They did," he said grimly. "The year father couldn't make the taxes. The first time the lord came to collect and father couldn't pay, he took Adalla - wanted to breed her to one of his brainless Orlesian game hounds. I tried to stop him but father held me back, said it was better that he take the dog rather than something else. I understand that now, but at the time I was furious with him for doing nothing while the bastards took Adalla away. Six months later the lord was back, tossed Adalla out of the back of his wagon, and said she had proven 'unsatisfactory' - by which I assume she refused to submit to his whims regardless of how he beat or tortured her. He said father still owed his taxes and left with a promise to return for payment. Adalla died before that happened, but the ponce was back in due course, and since there was nothing left for the bastard to take he decided to take the farm - _and_ arrest father, for tax evasion. I think he would have let them take him, too, but one of the louts laid hands on _me_ and asked the lord what to do with the 'whelp.' 'I don't care - kill him,' the lord says, just as easy as you please, and _then_ father fought back. I'd never seen my father lash out in anger before that day, hadn't thought him capable of it. There were at least fifteen men there that day, guards of the lord, and it was almost more than they could manage to subdue him, even though he held no weapon. While the men were fighting father, the lord grabbed hold of me and made to kill me himself, I think, when mother came flying out of the house with her bow drawn and arrows flying. Once they'd finally knocked my father unconscious the surviving guards had their hands full getting control of her - but when they did, the lord told them to hold her down. 'Make sure the boy sees,' he said, all the while unlacing his trousers…"

A muscle in his jaw twitched spasmodically as he clenched his teeth tight. "She pleaded with him then, I remember that. Not to spare her, not to let her go, but just not to make me watch it happen. The bastard just laughed at her." He shook his head vigorously, as if to dislodge the memory. "Other lords had always wondered why when I set out laws for Gwaren I penalized rape so very much higher than it is punished in other parts of Ferelden, higher than the penalties I set for theft of teyrnir property, even. Do _you _have any questions on that score?"

She shook her head. "No, I don't."

"It is the _worst_ crime any man can commit," he said, vehemently, "short of outright murder. And I'm not always too sure that murder isn't kinder, at times. Some of the women I've seen - it's like they _were_ dead. They just didn't have the strength to continue on after what they were put through." He was so passionate about it that he fairly quaked with barely-repressed rage.

Elilia placed a calming hand on the middle of his chest, kissed him, and put her head down on his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her almost too tightly.

"I never cried," he said. "Not a tear. It was too big for tears, I think. When it was over and she was dead they put the house and outbuildings to the torch and left. Just left, almost as if they'd forgotten all about me. I remember thinking that mother looked cold laying there with her dress all torn, so I went into the house and got the big quilt off my parents' bed and covered her with it - I didn't even notice until much later that the fire in the roof singed off some of my hair. After awhile my father came to and saw me there, sitting by my mother's body looking like a mage made Tranquil, I suppose, and he took a sword from one of the men mother's arrows had killed and he left. He just left. I sat there for three days, and I couldn't tell you today whether I moved or slept or even breathed. Finally father returned, grabbed mother's bow and tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and we were on the run from that day forward. He'd killed them, you see, every damned one of them. Tracked them down one by one and gutted them all, the lord last. I think he came to regret it, because his rage that day fed _my _anger later on, and he worried I'd come to a sorry pass if I didn't learn forgiveness. One more thing I suppose I can say he was right about."

"Does it feel any better," Elilia asked after a long period of silence, "having out with it at last?"

"I don't know," he said. "Maybe. A little."

She coaxed him into lying down beside her, and they lay in silence. The sounds of Harvestmere revelry continued to drift through the unshuttered window but that was all outside; inside all was silence and the pain of an old wound reopened in order to bleed out infection. After some time they slept, and that, too, was part of healing.

* * *

**A/N:** The Occupation is one of the biggest issues to wrap my head around in canon - in game it says it was 80 years long, in THE STOLEN THRONE it seems as if it started within Loghain and Maric's lifetimes. I figure this means that the Orlesians allowed Ferelden to stand as a protectorate for a lot of those eighty years, with the Theirins at least nominally in control, but that as the Orlesians grip got tighter and tighter Maric's great-grandfather and then his grandfather started fighting back, culminating in the deposition of the Theirins and Queen Moira's rebellion. Maric evidently has memories of the time when his grandfather ruled since we are told he used to hide his grandfather's glasses in the castle and there was no such amenity as a castle (other than being billeted occasionally by sympathetic nobles) once the Rebellion was on (and codex entries indicate that Brandel was killed) but Loghain at least never _indicates_ a time in his lifetime when his father was anything other than a farmer, so either Gareth was mustered out of service sometime before the actual end of Theirin rule, or Maric is a bit older than Loghain - which is possible as we are never told how old Loghain is, only that he thinks Maric (eighteen at the time) looks "about his age." Loghain is definitely someone who would have seemed (and felt) much more mature than he was, while Maric was still very much a boy and probably looked it, but this would mean that Loghain was awfully young during the Rebellion, even if it were only a matter of a couple of years. But its not like history does not know of extremely young generals who go on to conquer most of the known world (see Alexander the Great). Still, for my money, Gareth was injured at the Battle of Lothering - under the command of Maric's _Great_-Grandfather, who died there according to codex (I can't remember the name, but since it wasn't Brandel I make him great-grandfather) and was out of the service as Ferelden self-rule came to a whimpering defeat under Brandel.


	32. Chapter 32

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **Obviously my title, along with the non-original and somewhat altered lyrics contained herein, are stolen directly from beloved Monty Python. Apologies and gratitude to Neil Innis and Eric Idle. The legend of Ferelden folk dancing is of course a modified version of the legend of _Irish_ folk dancing.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Three: The Ballad of Brave Ser Robin**

That evening, with the festivities only heating up outside and Varric in particular ready and raring for round two, the party repaired to the village square again for food and drink. Minstrels tuned up in a rough-built pavilion while men with sharp axes entered a small windowless building and began hacking away at something inside.

"What are _they _doing?" Laz asked, gesturing toward the men with a toss of her head as both hands were occupied with skewers of meat.

"That's the ice house," Loghain said. "I expect they're planning to make ice cream."

"Ice cream?" Varric said. "What's _that?"_

In response Loghain merely smiled thinly and said, "Give it a couple of hours and you'll see."

Elilia wandered away from the others, not more than a few steps, to patronize a stand handing out fresh-baked cookies. As she took the first heavenly bite she overheard a couple of natives gossiping nearby.

"Whose that tall bird hanging around him?" one asked. "Camp-follower, you think? She's not much to look at."

The other snorted a derisive laugh. "I heard from one of the Newtakes that she's that Hero of Ferelden everyone's so thrilled about. They think she's the right shit, sure enough."

It was the other's turn to make noises of derision. "It's like they ain't even realized she couldn't face down that Archdemon without making Loghain stand with her."

"A right dirty trick, too, making him a Warden and taking away his proper title like that."

Disturbed, Elilia went back to stand with the others while the musicians prepared to play.

The minstrels were all natives, and once they had an audience they announced they were going to play "a song from the Exodus," which was what the locals called the mass emigration during the Blight. A drummer beat a steady rhythm while the lutenist plucked out a melody.

"_Boldly brave Ser Robin rode forth from Denerim._

_He was not afraid to die, O brave Ser Robin!_

_He was not at all afraid to be killed in nasty ways,_

_Brave brave brave brave Ser Robin!_

_Boldly brave Ser Robin rode forth to Ostagar,_

_There to face the darkspawn horde, O brave Ser Robin!_

_He would face the Archdemon at King Cailan's side,_

_Brave brave brave brave Ser Robin!_

_For he had faced the greatest men who sparred at Tantervale,_

_And at tourneys in Orlais and in Nevarr…AH!_

_And widely was his skill and strength betouted here at home,_

_Though none did see his name upon the rolls…O!_

_He stood there in a line of men,_

_With shield and sword and hound, and then_

_The darkspawn howled and swarmed the line_

_And all around, good men were 'dyne'…SO!_

_Brave Ser Robin ran away!_

_He bravely ran away, away!_

_When danger reared its ugly head,_

_He bravely turned his tail and fled!_

_Yes, brave Ser Robin turned about,_

_And gallantly he chickened out!_

_Bravely taking to his feet,_

_He beat a very brave retreat._

_Bravest of the brave, Ser Robin!_

_And then the horde, it did advance._

_Ser Robin shitted in his pants._

_He lit out straight for Gwaren town_

_And hailed the first ship that came down,_

_And that is why we sing to you_

_This story which we swear is true…FOR!_

_Brave Ser Robin ran away!_

_He bravely ran away, away!_

_When danger reared its ugly head,_

_He bravely turned his tail and fled!_

_Yes, brave Ser Robin turned about,_

_And gallantly he chickened out!_

_Bravely taking to his feet,_

_He beat a very brave retreat._

_Bravest of the brave, Ser Robin!_

_Ser Robin…'O SHIT!'"_

"Who's Ser Robin?" Seanna asked.

"He was a knight in the service of Arl Urien of Denerim, a bit of a boaster who claimed to have won every tourney in the Free Marches, though no one seemed to be able to confirm it," Elilia explained. "He is listed as a casualty of Ostagar, but evidently the people of Gwaren feel he met a different fate."

"Hard to say for sure," Loghain said. "I doubt anyone here would know the man if they clapped eyes on him, and they always looked upon him as a sort of _miles gloriosus_. If they wanted to make up a song about a cowardly braggart fleeing the Blight, he's the one they'd choose."

"'Tis god's honest truth, it is, m'lord," a nearby local called out. He was sloppy drunk and waved a gigantic tankard as he spoke. "Seen 'im meself with me own eyes, all fancy done up in 'is shiny silver plate with the gold inlay an' the mark a' the arlin' on 'is shield, not an 'air out a' place on 'is pretty 'ead. 'Is eyes was a' buggin' out a' 'is face like that." He described a gesture of pop-eyed horror with both hands, a good trick as he never let go of his ale. "I ain't a' sayin' 'e ain't dead, no serrah…man was in such an ass-bustin' 'arry t' get aboard ship 'e knocked a little grey-'aired lady off the docks an' inta the drink, 'e did. Clam-divers was out, thankfully, an' they pulled 'er out afore she drownded or friz, but the look on that lady's daughter's face, an' the big tough-lookin' red-'eaded gal they was travelin' with…wouldn't doubt a mite they done for _Brave Ser Robin _afore the ship was fairly to sea."

"A grey-haired lady and a red-headed gal?" Varric said wonderingly. "Was the daughter perchance white-haired also, with a dark-haired sister?"

The man sloshed his ale happily in Varric's direction and nodded. "Aye, Ser Dwarf, that they was."

"Then Brave Ser Robin is dead, indeed," Varric said, with a chuckle. "That white-haired daughter was Kireani Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, and the red-haired gal was Aveline Vallen, best Captain of the Guard Kirkwall ever had."

"There was an officer of that name in Varel's company," Loghain said.

"That was Aveline. Tough lady. Hawke was at Ostagar, too, along with a brother that didn't make it out of Lothering, but I don't think she was in the army long."

"_Carver _Hawke," Loghain said, grim, and said no more.

"I'm impressed," Varric whispered to Elilia as Loghain stalked off to talk to another native. "I got the idea from Hawke that Carver didn't really get a chance to distinguish himself in the army, but…"

"There was a mage in our company as we were fighting the Blight," Elilia said. "Wynne, a Senior Enchanter of the Circle of Magi. She fought at Ostagar herself and never missed an opportunity to snipe at Loghain for quitting the field that day. It was hard not to overhear. She said the lives of the men he abandoned meant nothing to him. He said that they were his men, that he knew their names, their families. I used to think he was exaggerating, or that he meant just those who wore his heraldry, but I don't think that anymore. Remembering their names is, I think, one more penance he set himself."

"Why _did_ he retreat, do you know?" Varric asked. "He doesn't seem like the retreating type to me. Was it blood mages, you think?"

"He called it a 'tactical error' when I asked. I don't know whether it was influenced by blood magic or not, but I remember something I was thinking that day, while Alistair and I fought our way to the top of the Tower of Ishal. I was thinking that if _I_ were waiting for a signal to charge, and it was as late as ours was bound to be, that I would assume the opportunity to do any actual good had come and gone." She snorted a bitter laugh. "I also remember thinking that I might very well assume whoever had lit the signal late was committing an act of treachery against the King, and that I might well be leading a charge directly into a trap."

"So you think he thought you were a traitor?"

"I think he thought the _Grey Wardens _were traitors," Elilia said. "He may have had some justice on his side. I don't believe for an instant, after all, that the Orlesian 'support troops' that were going to come along with the Orlesian Wardens were really meant _just _to protect us from darkspawn. Then, too, it occurred to me once I actually knew a little something about Wardens that it was very odd indeed that none of them checked out the Tower of Ishal for themselves. _Loghain's_ men checked it, not Duncan's. It was _dwarven architecture, _any Grey Warden ought to have known that it connected to the Deep Roads somewhere along the line, and the Grey Wardens were always supposed to be the only people who knew anything at all about the Deep Roads, other than the dwarves themselves. Now Loghain traveled the Deep Roads with Maric and Queen Rowan all the way from West Hill to Gwaren during the worst days of the Rebellion, but even so the Wardens should have insisted on checking the structure out for themselves. They were the only ones who could have sensed whether the darkspawn were massing there for a sneak attack."

"Wait - do _you_ think the Grey Wardens were traitors?" Varric asked.

She sighed. "I've asked myself that very question a dozen times. No, I don't think they betrayed Cailan _deliberately, _they stood to gain nothing by it as far as I can see. He favored them, he fully intended to allow as many Orlesian chevaliers to billet in Ferelden as we could hold…hell, I've seen evidence that shows he intended to hand the bloody country over to Celene as a fucking _wedding present - " _she broke off and took a few deep, calming breaths. "Duncan wasn't at Ostagar while all this was going on, he was busy elsewhere, recruiting _me_. We only got back the day before the battle. Why he didn't immediately insist upon sending Wardens to investigate Ishal I'll never know, but I do know that he was close to his Calling - a Warden's death, essentially, the madness that eventually overtakes anyone infected by the Taint - and perhaps not as sharp as he ought to have been. Why the other Wardens never insisted themselves may be because Duncan left them with orders not to interfere with the army, or perhaps none of them had any initiative, or maybe it was all just pure hateful spite. _Watching _Loghain in action is inspiring, actually _talking_ to the man tends to bring out the worst in people."

"He doesn't seem all that bad to me," Varric said. "A bit testy, maybe, but kind of…_nice_…ish, actually."

Elilia shook her head. "If you could go back and meet him as he was, you'd never recognize him. I don't know if age has mellowed him, or shame, or being a grandfather, or ten years in Orlais, or finally being _out _of Orlais, or the fact that we're sleeping together…or all of the above…but _this _Loghain did _not _exist at the Battle of Ostagar."

"Huh. Well, the love of a good woman does work wonders for a man. You should have seen _me_ before I met Bianca," Varric said, with an affectionate pat for the stock of his crossbow.

Loghain, meanwhile, sought out a relatively sober native and grilled him with questions. "How badly did the town suffer from darkspawn attacks?"

"Not bad, milord. We saw a few stragglers, nothing much to speak of, killed 'em all and burned the bodies real careful like, like you're supposed to."

"I heard there was a riot, I believe?"

The man scoffed. "Pshaw, milord, 'twas more of a _stampede _than a riot, if'n you ask me. The Newtakes - the people what spilled in from elsewhere - they raised a bit of a ruction when they found out that there wouldn't be no more ships leaving port and tried to take some of the fishing boats that were at dock. Didn't go over well with the fishermen, you can imagine. Some heads were knocked pretty keenly, but eventually the Newtakes figured out the way things work in Gwaren Town. 'Fit were up to me, I'd say let 'em leave. Ferelden don't need the yellow-bellied."

The festival only became more…festive…as evening drew on and the torches were lit. The minstrels played "Green Broom" and an extremely colloquial version of Elilia's childhood favorite, "The Three Ravens," the dialect so thick that she could barely understand the words, and as it got later they turned to tunes so bawdy they made "The Ballad of Brave Ser Robin" seem like something the Chanters might sing at mass. Powerful Gwaren ale flowed like water, children and hounds gamboled about in merry chaos, and eventually a barrel race was organized. Two great empty kegs were laid on their sides and the goal was to balance on top of the barrel and run it from one side of the square to the other faster than the man next to you, without falling off. The Gwaren timber jacks, drunk as they were, were exceptionally skilled at this, and made it look so easy that Varric - by that point quite deeply into his cups himself - declared _he _could do it, and set himself to try.

"Hold Bianca," he said, and pressed the crossbow into Loghain's hands, a dwarf on a mission.

The barrel slid out from under him as he moved to step up onto it and he fell on his ass in the dirt, and lay there laughing until a couple of burly lumbermen hoisted him back onto his feet, with some good-natured ribbing and congratulations for at least having the stones to try.

It was shortly thereafter that a tall, severe-looking woman announced that the ice cream was nearly ready. As if by orders everyone still in enough command of their senses to stand upright crowded around an enormous container that looked something like a huge butter churn, with a crank handle instead of a pole. The top was lifted off and a large bag of white powder was emptied into it, along with several bushels of tiny purple berries - _elderberries, _Loghain identified for his companions, only just recently ripened.

"Is that white stuff _sugar?" _Varric asked. "You can't tell me you folks grow sugar cane around here."

"No, sugar _beets," _Loghain said. "Only one local farmer grows them - Waltir Fitzgideon, he was bloody ancient when I first came to live here and the old fart is still alive, I see - but they're very popular. Thanks to his beets and maple sugaring time, Gwaren has the worst teeth in Ferelden," he added, sourly.

The lid was replaced on top of the ice cream grinder and a man with arms like tree trunks climbed up to turn the crank about a hundred fast rounds. It looked like tough going, and his face was a brilliant shade of crimson by the time the lid was once again removed and the stern-faced lady declared the ice cream ready. There was a general rush, and when at last the stampede subsided everyone had a bowl full of frozen purple cream - with the exception of Loghain, who abstained from sweets on general principles.

"I've never had ice cream before," Elilia said, as she glommed into the treat with a will. "I've _heard_ of it, but I never had it. In Highever when there was a fresh powder snow we'd go out and grab up platefuls and Nan would pour maple syrup over top of it, and we'd eat it that way."

"They do that here, too," Loghain said. "They make a festival out of maple sugar season, with candy-making and all sorts of nonsense. Gwareners will grab any excuse to throw a party and get drunk. Life is tough here, so I suppose they've got to grab any fun they can latch onto."

"Only a Ferelden," Varric remarked, and sucked his spoon clean, "could take _snow and ice _and turn it into an asset."

After the ice cream came dancing, a score of young ladies in their finest clothes - the rough, heavy fabric clearly of home weave, but sewn with care and attention to flatter the figure and swish and whirl becomingly as the steps twirled and bounced. They had white flowers in their hair, Andraste's Grace, and their legs flew gracefully and they seemed almost to float as they pranced, flashing shy smiles and tipping pretty winks at the burly young men in the appreciative audience. Elilia suspected that more than a few of them would put those little white flowers to more practical use in the morning.

"Why do they dance like that?" Laz asked. "They don't move their arms."

"The Orlesians outlawed folk dancing, during the Occupation," Elilia explained. "They said it was obscene."

"It was just another way to squeeze the peasantry as hard as possible, trying to subdue us," Loghain added. "We just took our dances indoors, and kept our arms still so that someone looking in through a window couldn't tell what we were doing. Now we dance out in the open, thumbing our noses at the bastard Orlesians, showing them that eighty years of tyranny wasn't enough to break Ferelden."

"Well, whatever the reason for it, I like it," Varric said. "Ferelden girls are cute as hell." Loghain snorted but didn't argue.

About an hour or so later, a commotion at the edge of town captured everyone's attention. The festivities ground to a wary halt as a group of Dalish elves walked boldly right into the torchlit square. Gwaren was on relatively friendly terms with the Dalish, with whom they traded on occasion, but this had the appearance of an invasion, and no one knew quite how to react.

"Peace, good people," the tall Keeper said, holding up an open hand. "We apologize for interrupting your celebrations, but our Elder wishes to speak to the one called Loghain."

Loghain stepped up and crossed his arms over his chest. "Hello again, Verrithal. So your Elder wishes to speak to me. What you should ask is do I wish to speak to _her?"_

"Peace, Loghain," the old woman said, stepping out from behind the line of hunters. The look on her face expressed the fact that what she had to say cost her a great deal. "I have thought long on what you said, and spoken long on it with my clan. The ones who killed her…they threaten this land again?"

No need to ask whom she meant, and he appreciated her circumspection. "They do."

"And you can stop them?"

"I can."

She nodded then, as if in decision. "Our clan would stand with you in this endeavor, if you have need of us."

There were gasps of astonishment from those onlookers sober enough to grasp what was being offered. The Dalish would stand alongside Ferelden against the Orlesians? It was unfathomable, a miracle that every native son of Gwaren felt could only have been wrought by Loghain. "The man's a canny devil," they would say to each other later, and toast the occasion with many cups of ale and whiskey, "even if he is a foreigner."

"No assistance would ever be turned aside," Loghain said slowly, "but why would you offer that?"

"She was mine, once," the Hahren said. "She was ours."

He nodded understanding, and the Hahren spoke again. "We have sent runners to the last-known locations of other clans that ought to be in this area at this time of year. We cannot promise that they will join, but we will see what they have to say. It is time, I think, that the Dalish made a stand for their people, even if we must do so by standing for yours. Some evils are inflicted upon _all _the races, and should not be permitted. We will make camp to the north, below the mountain upon which sits the great shemlen city, to avoid the worst of the approaching winter, but when you have need of us, we will answer the call."

The Dalish made to leave, then, but Loghain stopped them with a word. "Hahren…might I know your name?" he asked.

She smiled a bit at that, her green-grey eyes sad. "Neriah, Loghain. My name is Neriah."

"Hahren Neriah. I am more pleased on this occasion to meet you than I was on the last. I believe your words for farewell and safe journey are 'dareth shiral?'"

She bowed slightly, her smile now touched with something that might have been pride. "Dareth hashamval, da'len…walk with courage."

The elves disappeared then, melting back into the shadows of the forest as quietly as they'd stepped out of them. Loghain turned to his people.

"Let's go back to the Keep and get some sleep," he said. "Tomorrow comes early, and we need to be on our way."

"Aw, dad, can't we stay?" Varric said. "This is the best party I've had since the time I passed out at the Hanged Man and woke up tied to the rafters ass-naked and painted with kaddis."

"You and yours are welcome to do whatever you'd like," Loghain said, "but Elilia and I must get back to Denerim, and I assume, Seanna, that you want to stay with us?"

The mage nodded. "I've heard about Gwaren winters, and I don't think I'm ready to experience one just yet. Although it is really very nice here, I wasn't expecting that."

"Ah, me and Laz and Paragon have got to get back to the city, too," Varric said. "I never have done well at country living, and I probably shouldn't make my first Ferelden winter a _Gwaren _winter - it has a rather ominous ring to it. Besides, Hawke might be in Denerim by now."

"Do we really have to tramp all that way back to Denerim?" Laz asked. "Isn't there a shortcut we could take, like a boat or something?"

Loghain nodded. "We'll take the Brecilian Passage. It cuts the trek down from weeks to just days."

"They say its overrun by werewolves," Elilia warned.

"Then we'll clear it out," Loghain said simply.


	33. Chapter 33

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**No Bull From the Big Bull, Volume One, by Varric Tethras, a Humble Storyteller**

**Excerpt: Being An Account of the Meeting of Ser Cauthrien Landsman, Bann of Gwaren**

_Cauthrien wiped the sweat from her brow with a thin, brown arm, bare almost to the shoulder beneath the ragged cuffs of her plain peasant's blouse. She was tired and hungry and damnably thirsty, her throat seemingly coated with chaff, but there was no stopping until the wheat was all cut - even this brief moment to catch her breath and rest her tired arms from the weight of the scythe ran the risk of retribution later, particularly if Da' was drunk. And Da' was always drunk._

_The bruises from the last such "lesson" her father had imparted to her when deep in his cups were livid purple and tender, painful. The one over her eye made it hard to see what she was doing, the ones on her arms made it all the harder to wield the heavy reaper. But it was better to be out here than in the little ramshackle hovel, even if she was exhausted._

_Her ears perked to the raucous sounds of men talking loudly, some distance away. She looked up. Uh-oh, highwaymen, the same band of thugs that had been using the bend in the road at the end of her field as an ambush for unwary travelers. She turned her attention back to her work, praying to the Maker that they would not notice her. She counted on her ragged clothes, originally made for her older brother who was dead now, run over by a lumber wagon when he staggered drunk into its path outside the local tavern, and her skinny, under-nourished frame, to disguise her gender and render her both harmless and uninteresting to the men. They'd been there every day for nearly a week, now, and thus far it had worked._

_She didn't know how long she worked - with the chaff in her throat and the pain in her bruises and the hot sun beating down, every minute she labored felt like an eternity - but eventually her ears caught the clop of hooves on the hard-beaten track. And if _she _heard the approaching unfortunate, then it was a dead surety that the bandits heard, too._

_She didn't want to see - she'd witness two such ambushes, and the highwaymen left their victims dead in the ditch, and the rotting, fly-blown corpses of such unlucky sods were an all-too-common sight along Ferelden roads - but she was compelled by human nature to look up and watch disaster unfold. She wanted to shout a warning, but that would only turn the thugs' attention to her. Helpless and miserable, she stood there with her scythe hanging almost forgotten in her hands._

_It was a lone rider, which was odd enough - few were so foolish as to travel the bannorn without backup, so this man was either sublimely arrogant or dead stupid, which perhaps worked out to the same thing in the end - and the look of him was as nothing she'd ever seen before. She realized by his shining silverite plate and the fine heavy-bodied and stout-legged warhorse he mounted that he must be a knight, in service to one of the local lords or perhaps the King himself. Strangely he wore no helmet, and his long black hair flew in the stiff north wind. Fine as his armor was, it fitted oddly, as if badly remade to his measurements. He rounded the bend and the thugs were upon him._

_Perhaps it was the protection of the plate he wore that made him foolhardy, but there were more than enough bandits to put paid to one armored knight, and the bulging saddlebags he carried, marked with the seal of the Royal Treasury, were an irresistible target. Evidently he was making a run from the offices of the local tax collector, carrying the gold back to Denerim. Usually such a task fell to an entire _company _of soldiers, not one lone knight. She realized that _her_ money was in that bag, money she'd sweated and labored to earn while her father drank, and the idea that these wretched murderers would have it made her furious. It wasn't right that they killed, that they took what others had struggled and bled for, and it was time somebody stopped them. Blinded by her rage, she charged the bandits, scythe swinging, bellowing out the first war cry she had ever uttered._

_The cry and her momentum both faltered before she reached the melee. The thugs were dead, slaughtered with brutal efficiency, almost too quickly to fathom. The knight wiped the blood from his sword, returned it to the sheath he carried in harness on his back, and remounted his patient steed. The horse whickered softly as if to say "all in a day's work."_

_Cauthrien had never seen anything like it: death done beautifully, almost like a dance. She stopped and stared, bug-eyed, as the knight made ready to travel on. She had to speak, had to say something, just to make the memory indelible in her mind._

"_Oy, Ser, that was bloody fantastic! You must be as tough as the sodding Hero of River Dane!" she cried out._

_The knight chuckled quietly and looked at her for the first time. He had eyes the color and temperature of winter skies. "Not quite," he said, "but almost. I thank you for your assistance."_

_Cauthrien shrugged. "I didn't do nothing, Ser. You left nothing for me to do."_

"_On the contrary, you assisted me greatly. You provided a very effective distraction, otherwise things might have gone rather harder for me."_

_He looked her up and down, and his mount stepped off the roadway and into the field toward her, urged on by a gentle twitch of the reins. "Maker's breath, that's a young lady under all those bruises and dirt, isn't it? Tell me, pup - who is it has been pummeling you, eh?"_

_She blushed and dropped her eyes to the dirt and her bare toes. "It's nothing, Ser. Everybody's Da' beats on 'em a little, 'specially when they drink."_

"_Not _everybody's_ father beats his children," he said. He set his mouth in a hard, grim line as he surveyed the damage, the puffy black bruises around one dark brown eye, the marks of hard hands and harder fists all up and down both arms. His own father had been firm with him but had never raised a hand to him in anger - and perhaps there were those who would say he would be a better man now if he had been knocked around a little once or twice as a child, but this? This was cruelty, plain and simple. And cowardice, a weak man taking out his anger at the world on the one handy creature weaker than he. Though not, he suspected, for very much longer. This little bundle of twigs and straw was going to grow into a mighty oak tree one day, unless he missed his guess._

"_What's your name, pup?" he asked._

"_Cauthrien Landsman, Ser." She vaguely remembered something her mother had once told her about good manners, and sketched a rough and awkward mock-curtsey. "At your service."_

_It made him smile a bit, at any rate. "Loghain Mac Tir, at yours."_

_Maker's Breath! Loghain Mac Tir, the sodding Hero of River Dane himself! Cauthrien was boggled at the notion that such as he would even deign to notice someone as lowly as herself, and now what was he doing? Was he handing her a flask?_

"_You look about done in, Cauthrien Landsman. Water?"_

_Cauthrien was completely numb, but her dehydrated body cried out for fluid and she took the flask from his hand and drank down the contents greedily. She remembered just in time not to drink it all, and handed it back with mumbled thanks, shame-faced._

"_You _were _thirsty, weren't you? Shouldn't be working out here in this sun without water, it's like to kill you." And he drank down the remainder of the water himself. That utterly dumbfounded Cauthrien - that the Hero of River Dane would speak to her was one impossibility, that he would actually _drink after her _was another even more incredible impossibility. He didn't even wipe off the mouth of the flask, first!_

"_Have you got a mother, Cauthrien Landsman, or just a drunken Da'?" he asked, and it took her some time to recover enough wit to respond._

"_My Mam drowned herself in the river when I was small, Ser," she said. "It's just me and Da' now that Brother is dead."_

"_How old are you, pup?"_

"_Firteen, Ser."_

"_Thirteen. Too young for soldiering…but just about right for squiring. I don't have a squire, and damned if I haven't found its almost impossible to get on without one. How about it, Cauthrien Landsman? It's three hots and a cot, at the very least, and if you do well at it then eventually you'll be a knight, if you care about that sort of thing."_

_Thunderstruck, she could only gape at him dumbly for a long moment, until finally she managed to gasp out, "But Ser…I'm a girl!"_

"_And of what consequence is that?" he countered. "Some of the best knights and soldiers I've had the honor to fight alongside were 'girls,' Cauthrien Landsman. You've got pluck, and I think you've got grit; a bit of training and you'll suit well enough, I imagine. It's honorable work, and while I can't guarantee you'll not come away every bit as bruised and sore as you are now, at least they'll be bruises you earned, bruises that show the effort you've put into making something of yourself, not marks left by a ham-handed fool who can't control his fists or his vices. I'm offering you a hand up out of the nameless, faceless masses, Cauthrien Landsman; not something I do often and not an offer I'll ever repeat. It's your choice."_

_To make it official he extended a literal hand to her, and after a moment she placed her own much smaller hand in it. "I'm…supposed to finish the reaping," she said._

_He jerked his chin in the direction of the tiny hovel on the far edge of the field. "That your house, Cauthrien Landsman?"_

"_Yes, Ser."_

_He pulled her up onto the horse's back and deposited her in the saddle before him, as easily as if she weighed nothing at all, and turned the animal in the direction of her miserable little home. "Then let's go tell dear old Da' he'll have to find someone else to sweat the harvest this year." Cauthrien clung awkwardly to the pommel and sat there, unable to believe the strange turn the road of her life had taken, and not too young to feel an odd little thrill at sitting there with the Hero of River Dane all around her, it seemed, massive at her back and his enormous arms reaching past her to the reins._

_Da' staggered out of the shack as they rode up, hands balled into belligerent fists. "Cauthrien! What are you doing lollygagging about like this? I still see standing wheat in that field, you useless whelp!"_

_She hid her face in both hands, humiliated by him and for him, and the Hero of the River Dane did the talking._

"_Your daughter is coming with me, Ser, as I have need of a squire. She'll be provided for out of my pocket, and here - " he flung a small shower of silver at the drunk - "is enough coin to hire someone to finish out the farmwork for you, although it looks to me as if you could do it easily enough yourself if you'd put down the bottle long enough to pick up the scythe."_

_The man blinked stupidly at the coins, and then at his daughter and the man she rode with, then finally broke into a leering grin._

"_I see how it is," he said. "I reckon she'd be pretty enough if you could keep her from wallowing in filth long enough to bugger her. A man needs a little bellywarmer, don't he? And I'll be honest with you, Ser, this is more coin than the little bitch is worth. Mind you keep a close eye on her, though - she's a little fucking _whore, _just like her mother."_

_And just like that, the sword was in the big man's hand again and laid crosswise against her father's jutting adam's apple. "Granted, if a man rode up with _my_ daughter in his saddle, I'd have him strung up by his hams and gutted before he could say ought. But you, Ser, disgust me on general principles, and I'm well aware of the habit of such base and depraved individuals to ascribe their own sins and vices onto everyone they meet. Know this - if I ever learn that you used more than just your _hands_ on your daughter, _I will kill you, _if I must come from the ends of the bloody Void to do it. You can set your warrant on it."_

_He sheathed his sword again, turned the horse, and that was the last Cauthrien Landsman ever saw of her dear old Da'. She never felt the loss of him, not once._


	34. Chapter 34

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **Is this a LotR rip-off? Of course it is, almost all fantasy stories eventually get around to a LotR rip-off so why should I be any different? But it didn't start off with the intention of being a LotR rip-off, it started out intended as the Statue of Liberty built in Denerim harbor and when I realized that I needed two statues to turn them into a defensive structure it became the great statues of Isildur and his father. There's also a bit of _The Neverending Story _in the way the eyes work. _C'est la vie._

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Four: The Paragons**

All things considered, Anora was pleased. There had been no assassination attempts, harbor fortifications were progressing well in Amaranthine, Highever, West Hill, and Gwaren, and Captain Isabella had sped off in her ship immediately upon receiving commission with the appointed ambassador to Nevarra and had returned in a record-shattering month and four days, bearing a hold full of lavish gifts from the King of that distant land that were offloaded at the docks with the King and Queen in attendance to see and receive word.

"Don't read too much into it, Your Majesties," the Captain…a rather _oily _character, but evidently an accomplished seafarer…had said upon that occasion. "Nevarrans _love _to give gifts, the more extravagant the better. Their generosity goes to prove just how much _more_ than you they have, and how much they can afford to toss away to the lowly. It doesn't mean they'll actually send aid. But they might, because they hate the Orlesians almost as much as you do."

She chuckled then, and brought out a great ironwood chest from her own cabin. "Your father, Queen Anora, is a great hero to the Nevarrans, did you know? Now more than ever, apparently, since he evidently left quite a trail of dead chevaliers behind when he left Orlais. His Majesty informed me that _this _is for him, and for him alone, and bade me take exceedingly good care of it."

Champion Hawke was with them to greet the return of the ship and her Captain, as the Crown's liaison with the mercenaries, and she asked, "What is it?"

"Well how should I know?" Captain Isabella said, rather petulantly. "It's in a _locked box, _isn't it?"

"_Isabella…"_

The Captain sighed in annoyance. "It's nothing to get all in a tizzy over, it's just a moldy old fur."

"You've had it open, then?" Anora asked the woman, with her sternest glare fixed in place.

"I have, Your Majesty. Well I had to, didn't I? It could have been something dangerous, like a load of Qunari saar-qumeck that would kill all of you when the lid was off. I was only performing a vital service to the Crown."

"_Sure _you were," Champion Hawke said, with an expressive roll of the eyes.

"Have it open again, I want to see," Anora said.

Alistair touched her on the arm then. "My dear, perhaps it would be better to…"

"To wait for father?" Anora said. "What the devil for? I know exactly what he'll say, 'What the deuce am I supposed to do with _that_ bloody thing?' I'll have a look for myself; if it is serviceable, I may be able to put it to use."

"My kind of lady," Isabella said, and knelt down with her handful of picklocks. In a trice she had the lock jimmied and the lid open.

"The King of Nevarra didn't give you a _key_ along with this locked chest?" Hawke asked incredulously.

"Well, no - didn't seem to trust me with it. I suppose he figured the Royal Locksmith or who the hell ever would have it open, but I figured why put such an august personage to such mean usage? I can force a lock just as easy as _he_ could."

Anora, meanwhile, lifted the folded pelt out of the box and allowed it to fall open naturally. It was not at all moldy - the tawny fur was as clean and soft and perfect as if just cleaned and brushed. The creature outlined by the stretched hide was enormous, with razor sharp meat hook claws and gargantuan fangs still intact.

"I know what that is," Alistair said wonderingly. "That's a lion. They live in Nevarra and parts of the Anderfels. They're fierce predators."

"I know exactly what to do with this," Anora said. She let the pelt fall back into the box and gestured to one of the laborers. "Take this chest to Pramin el Sulabar's shop in the high market square and tell him I'll be there shortly to inform him of my wishes for it."

So in all, Anora considered things were well in hand - and the best news of all was contained in the back rooms of Pramin el Sulabar's, Madame Mellaris's, and Master Wade's. All she needed now was for father and the Hero of Ferelden to return to Denerim, and by the joyous news filtering in from the bannorn that would happen soon. Bann Ceorlic III, who had inherited non-existant holdings upon the death of his father four years ago, had already left the city to see for himself the truth of what the criers were touting, and Anora had little doubt but that the man would begin rebuilding Lothering in the spring. And it appeared that the dwarves were at last done with their mysterious building project in the harbor, for no more great wagons came streaming in from Orzammar, the scaffolding beneath the monumental expanses of plain canvas had been torn down, and King Bhelen had arrived yesterday, looking a bit shaken by the vast sky overhead but rallying valiantly to appear perfectly regal and composed. It was a bit of a wonder to her that the dwarves could be so put off by all the nothing up above and have no apparent difficulty whatsoever in laboring so very high above the earth under their canvas ceiling. The statues, silent and enigmatic beneath their shrouds, towered over the shipyards as high as the tower of Fort Drakon well up on the mountainside. Nothing of that scale had ever been seen in Ferelden - even the Circle Tower did not stand so tall. She quite looked forward to seeing them at last.

There was discord in her symphony of progress, however. An alarming rumor had come to town a few days past from Amaranthine with a group of terrified traders, who claimed that the _Fighting Ferelden _had been sunk by an armada of Orlesian ships. No official messenger had yet come to refute or confirm this rumor, however, and that in and of itself was alarming. Could the arling already be overtaken by chevaliers? It was a chilling thought.

Less frightening, perhaps, but no less unfortunate, was the fate of the Denerim Alienage. Bloody Lung had struck the elves, its source unknown. Many elves had immigrated to Ferelden from the Free Marches, taking advantage of free passage and the promise of work and opportunity, and the disease was not unknown there, but rumor had it that the Orlesians from the ship the _Fighting Ferelden _had sunk off Denerim harbor had brought an infected elf to the city. The last surviving crewman of that ship was still stubbornly silent in the dungeons of Fort Drakon. Fortunately it seemed that the Alienage had been quarantined in time and the fast-spreading disease was not running rampant through the streets of Denerim, but there were more than a thousand elves locked away in that tiny space behind the walls to suffer and die for lack of treatment. It was a great pity, and a terrible loss of manpower as well. And the elves of Denerim had frankly suffered enough in recent years. It seemed as if the Maker really ought to reach down and help the poor bastards for once.

So no, not _all_ was sunshine and buttercups. But when was it ever?

"My lady, can I not entreat you to wear something more becoming?" Erlina asked for the fifth or sixth time. "Your Majesty looks like a pretty _boy_ in those clothes."

"I may not be putting out to _sea, _Erlina," Anora said, amused despite the tickle of annoyance she felt, "but I am going out on a ship where deck space is limited and I will not want to be tripping over skirts while rigging and yardarms or whatever they're called are flying everywhere about." She adjusted the high collar of her sleeveless leather doublet and gave a final twitch to the cuffs of her blouse. It was not a _Queenly _ensemble, perhaps, but it was practical, and she fancied she looked well enough in it. Judging from the cheeky way Alistair pinched her behind when he saw her in it, _he_ thought so, too.

He was looking very tired these days, she thought, and no wonder since he allowed himself so little sleep. She was rather proud of the way he'd knuckled down to the challenge, inane quips at least temporarily set aside, but she worried that he was using himself up. He'd aged a score of years in the past few months, it seemed. He wore it well, but it _did_ make his resemblance to King Maric - at least as _she_ remembered the old monarch - almost eerie. She would have to exert her wiles to make him rest a bit now and then - much the way her own mother had often cajoled her father into laying aside his burdens for a few hours when they began to tell too heavily upon him. Men were so damnably stubborn about doing their duty instead of doing what was good for them that enabled them to _perform _their duty more efficiently. Fortunately women were more sensible. She had high hopes that Elilia Cousland would be able to manage her father nicely. He, of all people, needed a keeper. He would beat himself to death against a stone wall if he took it into his head that it would in some way benefit Ferelden to do so.

Their party - composed of herself, King Alistair, King Bhelen, Arls Vaughan and Eamon and Bann Franderel, the latter two with wives in tow, Champion Hawke and her pretty sister Bethany and her Dalish lover Merrill (Anora had nothing personally against either elves or same-sex love affairs, but did they have to be so open about theirs?), the Champion's fine hound Spirit, Guardsman Aveline and Donnic and a dozen dozen attendants and guards, including that unnerving white-haired elf the Champion had in her company, the Tevinter with the odd tattoos who was now part of King Alistair's personal guard -climbed on board _The Siren's Call II _and Captain Isabella gave the call to make sail.

"Haul ass, you louts!" she shouted at her men, who stepped lively enough. The woman ran her ship the way father ran his armies, Anora thought, and he would probably like her - provided he didn't like her _too _much, as she had noticed the way the good captain gave the eye to seemingly every man she encountered, and every woman as well. And she was unseemly familiar with His Majesty, who she evidently knew from years past. Just how _well _she knew Alistair remained an open question, but for his part the King just seemed uncomfortable with her innuendo-laden attempts at conversation, so Anora allowed the matter to rest.

For now.

The ship made anchor just far enough from shore that the full height of the covered statues in the harbor could be seen. Two teams of brontos waited on the wharves, tethered to great hooks in the back of the canvas, their drovers waiting orders to pull sheets. "I wonder what they're going to do with all that canvas?" Alistair whispered to her. "We could do a _lot_ with that amount of canvas."

She shushed him, although privately she coveted the many hundreds of square feet of cloth herself. Their soldiers would never lack for tents…but the dwarves had already gifted them extravagantly with the statues, it would be impolite and impolitic to ask for more.

"Your Majesties, Lords and Ladies, gentle people of Ferelden," King Bhelen began grandly.

"Gentle people? He hasn't met many Fereldens, has he?" Alistair said, with a chuckle. Anora elbowed him sharply in the ribs. The inane quips hadn't fallen _entirely_ by the wayside, she was chagrined to see.

King Bhelen ignored him, which was always the best policy, Anora had found. "It is my great honor as King of Orzammar to present to you…your Paragons."

A dwarf high in the crow's nest flashed a signal to shore, and the canvases slowly, majestically rose over the backs of the twin statues. They were not identical, something that was easy to see before the cloth uncovered more than two pairs of monumental feet. A bit further and it was clear that while one great stone image depicted a man, the other was obviously female. They were carved realistically rather than with geometric precision as the statues of dwarven Paragons were, but certainly in fine heroic posture.

When the cloth covered only the last portion of each body it was revealed that the male statue, on the northwestern end of the harbor, had its arms crossed over its chest, legs spread in a strong stance, a sword and shield resting easily on the ground at its feet. The female statue, on the southeastern end of the harbor, stood with one foot slightly forward and one arm outstretched as if to clasp the hand of the weary traveler, but the other hand rested lightly on the hilt of a gigantic greatsword partly concealed behind her legs. That outstretched and completely unsupported arm was a wonder, more so than the rest of the statues put together, not just because so much negative space in statuary was difficult to achieve but because the statues were pieced together of interlocking stones, joined so perfectly that the seams were utterly invisible. Anora wondered greatly how the dwarves had managed it.

But she didn't have time to wonder long. The sheets rose a bit higher…

"Oh dear Maker," she groaned, when she realized what she saw and what it portended.

"What is it, dearest?" Alistair asked, and in response she could only point at the shoulders of the male statue. A pair of narrow braids rested on the stone figure's armored chest. "I don't see what…"

The last portion of canvas fell away in a rush, pulled by gravity, and Alistair smacked himself in the forehead with the heel of his hand.

"Maker's breath," he said reverently, "the Landsmeet is going to have kittens, and I can't imagine _Loghain _will be terribly thrilled about this, either."

King Bhelen utterly missed their reaction, perhaps because he didn't know what kittens were. He beamed his benevolence upon the assembled from approximately waist height as the humans slowly assimilated the fact that standing sentinel over Denerim harbor at a height of more than a thousand feet each were Elilia Cousland and Loghain Mac Tir.

"Excuse me, King Bhelen, Ser," Alistair said, with a nervous chuckle, "but where precisely did you get the idea that these were…er…_Paragons?"_

"The Warden proved herself worthy of the title by what she did for us in Orzammar, of course," Bhelen said. "It would not have been proper to so honor her there, as she is not of our ancestors, but it seemed only fitting to so honor her in her own native lands. As for the Paragon Loghain, it was your father King Maric who told us of his Rise, long ago when he visited during the reign of my father King Endrin. He told of how the casteless criminal Loghain triumphed over all adversity to become champion of all Ferelden, and founded his own noble house. I confess as a child I was much impressed by King Maric's tales of his exploits."

Anora coughed significantly. "That does rather make him sound like the very definition of a Paragon," she muttered to her husband. "And I'm certain your father would have been pleased as punch to capitalize upon the dwarven king's misconception. He would have considered it…a fine lark. A joke intended more upon my _father, _I suspect, than upon King Endrin and Orzammar."

"I daresay my father would have approved of this, then," Alistair said, as he indicated the statue and sighed. "I confess it's a remarkably good likeness, better than any I've seen done in portrait, and honestly it seems rather fitting that he stand guard over the capital for the rest of eternity, but I really don't look forward to the Landsmeet."

"Your devoted Uncle looks as if he doesn't want to wait for that venue to give vent to his feelings on the matter."

Eamon was quite red in the face and seemed on the verge of apoplexy. Arl Vaughan and Bann Franderel, also no great supporters either of Loghain or indeed of the Crown (but who were invited only because they were the only Ferelden noblemen in Denerim at the time), also looked ready to burst with affront. But the tide of invective they threatened was forestalled by a shout from the crow's nest.

"_Ship ahoy!"_

Captain Isabella stepped to the rails, pulled a Qunari-made spyglass from the sash at her waist, and sighted along the line of the sailor's pointing arm.

"A warship, and fucking _huge," _she said. "I think it's sinking, though."

She watched for another few moments and then she laughed. "Oh. It's _not_ sinking. It's that great wallowing tub, the_ Fighting Ferelden."_

"_What? _Let me see!" Alistair demanded eagerly, and grabbed the spyglass. "Maker's breath, it _is! _Old Ironsides herself, and none the worse for wear, as far as I can see. What a bloody relief!"

Anora agreed wholeheartedly. It was wonderful that the ship was not sunk, not just because she was their only proper seaborne defense and represented a tremendous investment (mostly of her father's own coin, she well knew) but because her father had always had such great faith in his clumsy ironclad ship and it was heartening to see that it was not unfounded - when King Maric was lost at sea and their plans for a Ferelden navy scrapped, it was hard for her to say whether it was the loss of his friend or the sudden intense disfavor of his ship that hurt Loghain more. Maker only knows what this "Orlesian Armada" the merchants spoke of had actually been, but Anora was very glad that Maric's _Wallowing Loghain _was still afloat.

For a "tub," the big ship hove into shouting distance with astonishing rapidity, buoyed along by magic. The sounds of merry singing could be heard aboard, and a cry went up from the decks as someone in the rigging recognized the King and Queen aboard _The Siren's Call II_. A tall, thin, dark-haired man stepped to the rails and shouted an halloo through cupped hands.

"Your Majesties! Grand news from Amaranthine! Your ship fought _twelve Orlesian warships _and sank them all!"

"Maker's breath! _Twelve?" _Eamon gasped, and Isolde clutched his arm to keep him from the swoon that seemed inevitable.

"Grand news indeed!" Alistair shouted back. "But you are not my ship's captain…I know you, do I not?"

"Aye, Your Majesty," the man hailed back. "I am Senior Warden Nathaniel Howe - acting Warden Commander. I have much news I bring to you from the north."

"Ah, I remember you, Warden Howe. At the palace then, in an hour?"

"Aye, Your Majesty. 'Til then."

King Bhelen chuckled. "There is more to see, Your Majesties, but we should wait until your ship clears the breach. We need a clean target."

The _Fighting Ferelden _zipped into port like a clipper, with a resumption of triumphant songs from the men working the decks, and at last the seas were clear. King Bhelen gave a signal, and shortly thereafter gigantic lyrium runes blended into the design of the sculptures flared alight - as did both enormous pairs of lyrium-laced eyes, with an effect eerily like a flash of sudden awareness.

"Oh, Maker…they're even the right color," Alistair groaned, with a halfhearted chuckle. "That is just…creepy, seriously. It was bad enough when it was just a gigantic statue of my father-in-law, but now it looks like he's just standing there, a thousand feet tall, staring down at me with suspicion and judgment."

"One thousand, two hundred and forty-six feet, Your Majesty, to be precise," Bhelen said. "The Paragon Elilia stands just a bit shorter, as she does in life."

"What is the purpose of the lyrium-glowing eyes?" Alistair asked. "Other than skeeving me out, that is."

"They're not just decorative, Your Majesty," Bhelen said, with a grim sort of chuckle in his voice. "Bring on the derelict," he called. A decrepit old ship, barely floating, was hauled in by a line attached to a sturdy tugboat. "Watch this."

A catapult on the derelict's deck suddenly hurled a gigantic flaming tar bomb directly at Denerim harbor. Alistair shrieked in terror, but before he could even blush at the girlishness of the sound, Statue Loghain's eyes had shot cold blue bursts of enchantment power, scoring a direct hit upon the tar bomb which simply seemed to cease to exist, and Statue Elilia's eyes did the same to the derelict vessel. It was just…not…_there _anymore, and the sea rushed in to fill the suddenly empty void where it had been with an authoritative thwapping sound.

"_King Bhelen!" _Anora said, in dismay, "Were there men aboard that ship?"

"Of course not, Your Majesty. The catapult was rigged to loose by remote trigger, from the tug. But just imagine what would happen to an _Orlesian_ vessel that attempted to do the same to your fair city?"

It was monstrous, diabolical…and yet, once the first shock wore off, quite an attractive idea. "If I may, Your Highness, why do the dwarves not use such things against the darkspawn?" Alistair asked.

"We once did," Bhelen replied. "But it requires an immense amount of lyrium to create such enchantments, which in turn means an immense amount of stone and the space to put it - we didn't make these statues this big _merely_ to impress you. The places where our great sentinel statues stood are no longer held by us, though one hopes that will not remain true forever. But the truth is, such things are less effective against darkspawn then they are against siege weapons - which the darkspawn generally don't use. But they seemed well-suited to answer a few of _your _current concerns, and Ferelden is and hopefully shall remain our greatest ally."

"When we go back to the harbor," Arl Vaughan ventured, eyeing the grand statues nervously, "they _won't _take us for an enemy warship, will they?"

"Not unless we used some weapon upon the city," King Bhelen said. "So don't."


	35. Chapter 35

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Five: Drink Your Glasses Empty**

"I think Bianca's gotten scratched."

Thus were Varric's glum words as at long last they exited the eternal twilight of the deep Brecilian Forest for the bright sunlight at the base of the city.

"Put that away before we reach the gates, or the guards will shoot you," Loghain said, not entirely truthfully.

Varric gave the crossbow's shiny mahogany stock a final pat and a fond kiss and returned Bianca to her harness on his back. "Somewhere in this town there's some fine-grit sandpaper with your name on it, Bee, but matching your stain might be tough."

"Would have been easier in Gwaren," Loghain said, "but someone in the industrial district should be able to set you up."

"If I find the right stuff I'll lay in a stock. Somehow I suspect that if I continue to hang out with you, I'll need a steady supply. Four days fighting werewolves in the dark forest would strip the varnish off of anyone."

"You should think about equipping yourself with a decent blade, even just a hunting knife - something you can grab quickly and fight with one-handed. Bianca is a fine weapon, but she's entirely too good to waste on close combat."

"You are a wise man, Big Bull," Varric said. "Hawke did that very thing herself, and her bows were never as splendid and fierce as my Bianca. Maybe I'll hit the marketplace and look for a decent dagger."

"I am…glad to be back," Seanna said, timidly but with a tremor of fervency in her voice. Being back meant being at risk from the local templars, but it also meant no more sleeping rough, no giant spiders, and no werewolves.

"Look there - what the bloody hell do you think that is?" Elilia asked. She pointed at the horizon beyond the city wall, where the back of her own head, done in gleaming white stone a thousand feet high, could be glimpsed among the buildings strewn over the mountainside.

Loghain grunted. "I reckon we'll see once we're in the city proper."

"Must we go straight to the palace, or may we enjoy a cool drink and a moment's peace before we start dealing with…being back?" Elilia asked.

It was on Loghain's lips to say that they had to go to the palace, of course they did, business must always be taken care of first and duty was paramount, but another thought stayed him. Even though he looked forward to seeing his daughter and her children again (and yes, even to seeing his son-in-law, a little) he did not at all relish the sort of duties the King and Queen would foist upon him, first and foremost among them the business of the upcoming holiday and the Landsmeet that would take place shortly thereafter. Frankly, the issue of succession in Gwaren didn't interest him much nor did he feel it was of any great importance compared to the larger issues of national defense.

"Let's go for that drink," he said. "Anywhere but the Gnawed Noble, I can't stand that pretentious scummy hole, or the people that drink there."

"Ah, the Gnawed Noble," Varric said fondly. "Just when I thought the _Hanged Man _had a rotten name. There's a decent pub down by the docks - a bit of a dive, true, but the ale is good and the place doesn't smell all that bad."

"The Fishwife's Cloister?" Loghain asked.

"You know the place."

"Only place in town where a man can get a drink without being hounded by petitioners or thugs."

"Ha! So you've had dealings with the Dwarven Merchants' Guild, too?" Varric said, laughing.

"Worse. Ferelden nobility."

The guardsman in the box before the gates saluted smartly as they approached. "Lord Loghain, Ser - I shall send to the palace word of your return."

"If you might be so kind as to delay that word even just a few moments, that would be much appreciated," Loghain said. "My companions and I would like a moment to catch our breath before we have to dive back into the river."

The guard grinned. "Understood, Ser. The young lads are damned unreliable, always stopping to chat with their mates or getting lost in the markets."

"Good man."

Once through the great gates they turned east towards the seafront, wending down the streets through the well-built and organized buildings that had replaced the ramshackle sprawl destroyed by the Archdemon's armies. Not every part of Denerim was New and Improved, but so much had been lost that had to be rebuilt. Elilia had funded much of it, boldly hording the Archdemon Urthemiel's corrupted blood to herself and forcing the Warden Order to pony up gold in order to replenish supplies made scarce by the intervening centuries, calling it "duties of the defenders of Thedas for the reconstruction of Blight-ridden Ferelden." It had only been the _first_ time she'd deliberately acted to piss off the First Warden, though it was probably her finest hour as a renegade of the Order - and it had been prompted solely by the conspicuous _lack_ of assistance the Order provided to the defenders of the Fifth Blight. The bulk of that blood still resided in casks beneath the Denerim Warden's Compound, but she'd brought in an absolute fortune for the barrels she'd sold. Needless to say, Loghain approved wholeheartedly. Admission to the Order hadn't made him any less suspicious of it or its agenda. Four hundred years was a long time to simply "remain vigilant," and the First Warden seemed more adept than he or Elilia at breaking the "non-interference" rule.

Suddenly he stopped short, causing Laz to walk directly into his back. "Maker's breath…"

The corner he'd just rounded revealed the grand sentinel statues in all their glory, although both faces - and both identities - were concealed by their orientation. "I've never seen anything like that before," Elilia said, awestruck. "Even the magisters never made statues like _that."_

"There's supposed to be something like this at the Merdaine, in the Anderfels," Varric said. "A tremendous statue of Andraste carved right out of the mountain's face. But this…this is…a whole different degree of 'holy shit.'"

"By all that is good and holy, it's Loghain and Elilia!" Seanna said, equal parts horrified and amused.

"I'm sure you're mistaken," Loghain said, with the uncomfortable sensation that she was not.

"Trust me, I've spent a goodly amount of time recently staring at your backs, and I speak now as an expert."

"What in the Maker's holy name would possess Alistair and Anora to erect gigantic statues of us in Denerim harbor?" Elilia said.

"It was the dwarves," Loghain said, through clenched teeth.

"Hey, you can't pin this on us!" Varric said, raising his hands defensively.

"Not _you, _the dwarves of Orzammar. Their King…Boolan, or whatever the hell his name is."

"Bhelen," Elilia supplied.

"Man can remember the name of a short-time grunt soldier who died a decade ago but not the name of a foreign Head of State," Varric muttered.

Loghain turned on Elilia accusingly. "You told the bastard you wanted your head on a bloody Paragon statue."

"Hey, I never thought he'd take me seriously," she said. "And I certainly never told him to stick a big statue of _you _up somewhere."

"Let's get to the damned bar," Loghain said, miserably. "I _really _need a fucking drink, now."

"Well I knew Anora would have a statue of you up sooner or later, but I thought she'd wait 'til you were dead," Elilia said, with a snigger. "And I always kind of thought she'd put it up by the Orlesian Embassy, so that it can stand _glaring down at them _for all eternity."

"It should be made to stand where the Orlesian Embassy _used to be," _Loghain growled. He ushered them into the tavern. "Just get inside and get a drink, I don't want to talk on it further."

He gestured to the bartender for ale and whiskey and chivvied his group towards a dark corner but a loud, beery burst of laughter halted them.

"Haw haw haw! If it ain't the _former _Warden Commander her own self. Knew I'd find ya if I just kept lookin'." A short, red-headed and red-bearded bull of a man staggered out of a side booth.

"_That," _Varric said, sounding impressed, "is the drunkest dwarf I've ever seen, up to and including myself. And that's saying a lot."

"Oghren, you didn't look - you sat and drank until I just happened to stumble in," Elilia said, and clapped hands with the disreputable dwarf.

"Haw haw haw! Worked just as well, didn't it?" The dwarf raised an enormous tankard of ale and downed its contents at a gulp, then leered at Laz. "Hey, cutie - like what you see?"

"Not even a little bit," she said, with an offended sniff. "You smell like the ass end of a bronto, steeped in cheap ale."

The dwarf gave out with an obscene giggle. "That's just the smell of _marinating in manliness, _cutie."

"Ugh," Seanna said.

"I suppose you're going to make us sit with this clod?" Loghain asked. "Oh, very well."

"Hee hee haw haw. Knew you liked me, Loghain."

"Just sit well away from _me, _Dwarf. Preferably downwind."

"Aw, and here I thought that was your special pet name for _me," _Varric said. "I feel like a cuckold."

"I'd recommend the House Specialty," Oghren said, a bit uncertainly. "Them cuckolds don't taste any too good after the first one or two."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."

They sat down and Oghren ordered another king-sized mug of ale. "When did you get to the city, Oghren?" Elilia asked. "And why?"

"Come in three days past with the Little Blighter on the _RMS Sitz Bath," _Oghren said. "Had business with the Little Pike-Twirler."

"Anyone care to translate?" Laz asked.

"'Little Blighter' - Nathaniel Howe, my second-in-command when I was with the Wardens," Elilia explained. "'Little Pike-Twirler' - King Alistair. I couldn't begin to hazard a guess what _'RMS Sitz Bath' _refers to."

"That sodding tub that took down the Orlesian fleet, that's what."

"_What _Orlesian fleet?" Loghain asked, sharply.

Oghren chuckled. "Happened just about a week ago. A dozen galleasses come zipping toward Amaranthine Bay with ballistae pwingin' away like mad…this big metal wreck comes zooming out of nowhere and just lays into 'em, I tell ya. It was sodding _beautiful. _But hitching a ride on the damned thing was probably the worst thing I've ever had to do since I signed on to this sodding outfit. Worse even than that time I - but, heh heh, you don't want to hear about _that."_

"What _else_ has happened lately?" Loghain asked. He sipped his whiskey and studied the dwarf shrewdly. "Have there been other attacks?"

"If you want to call 'em that," Oghren said, with a shrug of one shoulder. "'Bout a month or maybe a little better than that ago, a ship snuck into Amaranthine harbor - or tried to. But the Little Blighter was ready for 'em and we caught 'em before they could get out of their little boat. The big ship sailed off but the little one we put paid to, with her passengers. Orlesians. They had funny masks on."

"Orlesians always do," Loghain pointed out.

"These were funnier. Long beaks on 'em, stuffed with purty-smelling things. Flowers and such."

"Plague masks."

Oghren nodded. "That was what the Little Blighter called 'em, all right. And they had a big wooden crate with 'em. There was a sick elf inside."

"_Maker's breath."_

"That's about the size of it, I guess. Anyway, the Little Blighter sent everybody away but five of us, and we put on the masks and one of our mages, Bannistre, looked the poor kid over. Figured out he had the Bloody Lung. We took the elf to the Chantry, where the Little Blighter and Twinkle-Fingers proceeded to bully the Revered Mother out of enough powdered lyrium to make a batch of medicine for the little shrimp. He's still pretty damned sick, an' he don't speak a bloody word of Common, but he's sure grateful for the help we've given him - an' I think he's sweet on Twinkle-Fingers, too."

"'Twinkle-Fingers' - Velanna, another Warden, and a mage. She's a Dalish," Elilia translated.

Loghain shook his head. "They're trying to use bloody germ warfare against us," he said wonderingly. "Tossing poor sick elves around like bombs. Why don't they just heave rotting pig carcasses into our cities? It would be kinder than _this."_

"I suppose then you hadn't heard what happened here in Denerim?" Oghren said.

"What happened here in Denerim?" Loghain asked tightly.

Oghren shook his head over his ale sadly. "The Little Blighter feels a bit guilty about that, but it wasn't really his fault. When we caught the Orlesians the city Bann got so damned scared he closed the place down tight, and everybody was in such an ass-bustin' flurry we couldn't find any man to send to here with word, and the Little Blighter had every man at the Keep trying to keep order in town, Wardens and plain soldiers alike. Like as not there wasn't any difference a warning could have made - the sounds of things, they struck here same night."

"They brought another sick elf to Denerim," Loghain said.

"'Fraid so. And there wasn't nobody to stop 'em, here. The Little Pike-Twirler stepped up guard patrols around the docks, but that's one of them cases of shuttin' the barn door after the bronto's been stolen, ain't it? The Alienage is in quarantine. All the elves are dying, so they say."

Loghain slapped the rough wooden table, hard, with both hands, making the glasses jump and rattle. _"Son of a - "_

He jumped up, and strode angrily toward the door. "Where are you going?" Elilia asked.

"To the Alienage."

"Loghain, you can't go there; it's in quarantine - you were already sick once, isn't that enough?"

"_Bugger it."_

"Come on, Big Bull - what are you going to do, _knock? _I don't think they'll let you in," Varric supplied.

"Then I'll climb the fucking wall."

"And what are _we _supposed to do?" Seanna asked. "Are you asking us to follow you into that malaise?"

"You stay here, dammit - all of you."

"Whatever you're thinking, Loghain, you're wrong," Elilia called out desperately. "There's no need for this."

"Elilia, I can help. What - "

"_Don't say it," _Varric interrupted. "Do _not _say it. 'What could possibly go wrong?'"

"No, Dwarf - I _never _saythat." And he turned and was gone.

"I hope he's got some kind of a plan," Seanna said.

"He always does, Little Bird," Elilia said, but she sounded doubtful herself. What she was thinking was, _Anora is not going to be happy about this - and me? I'm a fucking widdow before ever I took my vows!_

Oghren swallowed down his ale. "Bartender! Another round!"


	36. Chapter 36

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**No Bull From the Big Bull, Volume One, by Varric Tethras, a Humble Storyteller**

**Excerpt: Flat-Eared Child; or, Half**

_He knew that he was different. Perhaps it was the very pains his parents took to ensure that he did _not _that forced the knowledge upon him. He was…between, neither one nor the other. As if the Maker couldn't quite make up His mind._

_He had his mother's quick temper, easily frustrated to the point of rage, particularly by his own failures, and he had but little patience. But he was quiet, thoughtful, and very serious, much like his father. Like both parents, he could be more than a little…willful. And his curiosity and thirst to prove himself, even at this very young age, led him into misadventures to try the patience even of his imperturbable father._

"_My little One," his mother would say, always with that emphasis that let him know she gave the endearment proper noun status, while patching up his injuries from some ill-fated adventure. "Always trying to be so much more than what you are, never content simply to _be."

_And why would he be? Who could ever content themselves with being merely half?_

_He hated going to town. The people of Oswin always looked at him strangely, as if they couldn't quite figure out what he was. The sisters at the Chantry were worse still, trying to catch him unprotected by his father and lecture him about the Maker and the importance of going to services lest his tiny, unimportant soul be lost to the Void forever. He thought them more likely to snatch him away than the hard-eyed men who leaned against the sides of the buildings in the back alleys that his father worried about. The townie children despised all from the surrounding freeholds, and sometimes threw stones at him if they thought they could get away with it. The fact that, young and skinny as he was, he'd already managed to thrash half of them didn't make them any happier with his occasional presence in their town._

_So he led rather a solitary existence even when young, but if you asked him whether he was lonely he might well have looked at you as though you were mad. He had mother and father, and he had Adalla, the mabari pup his father found in their woodshed who never left his side for a moment. He had enough._

_But if instead you asked him was he _happy, _you might have surprised him out of rather a different response. He loved both his parents and he knew they loved him, but he felt the tension his awkward, in-between presence brought to their lives and mistook it for disappointment. His father must surely want a strong, strapping boy that would grow into a giant of a man like himself, and too impatient for natural growth and frustrated by not being as strong and capable as he thought he should be he believed that great size would never be his. His mother must surely want an elf like herself, and he would never be that, either._

_On one occasion, when he was very young and small indeed, an early foray into the fine art of tree climbing left him with a knot on his head and a broken arm. His father set the bone himself, praised him for his stalwart silence through the pain, and then his mother took over. Her relief that he had come to no worse end than this made her a trifle more clingy than she would perhaps have been otherwise, and she held him on her lap and rocked with him in her homemade wicker chair. Though he considered himself far too old at the sage age of five and a half for such babying he lay still in her arms and pretended to sleep so he would not be forced by pride to object._

_After awhile she began to hum, a tune he did not recognize. She did not know human songs, so he thought it must be a song of the Dalish, and he wished he could know the words. While she hummed she stroked his hair back from his face and began to trace the shell of his ear with her fingers, round and round again. He wondered if she was trying to stretch it out, make it come to a point. If she could manage it, she was welcome to try. He was tired, already, of being nothing more than half._


	37. Chapter 37

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Six: Night Elves Watch the Line**

"He's gone _where?" _Queen Anora fairly shrieked, and started out of her throne.

"To the Alienage, Your Majesty. Once we collected our wits we followed him, but the guard he bullied into letting him through the gate he _also_ bullied into keeping us out - even Champion. I'm sorry." Elilia hung her head in shame.

"Hold on now, this might not be such a bad thing," King Alistair said. "Are there any Ashes of Andraste left over?"

"There…_are, _Al, but how many sick elves are there?"

"A lot," he said, darkly. Elilia sighed.

"So even if he plans to use them, could he really expect them to hold out until he saves _all_ the elves? Will not the sick ones just make the saved ones ill again?" she asked. "And what then for him? Surrounded by so much illness, he's sure to catch his death. Again."

"The guard will let _me_ in," Anora said, fiercely.

"Dearest…if your father has been in the Alienage all this time, it's already too late," Alistair said, as gently as possible. "Don't make things worse by getting sick yourself. Think of the children."

"I am forced to agree, Your Majesty. All we can do now is pray."

"I thought you weren't the praying sort, Eli," Alistair said, with a sick grin.

"I'm not, Al. But the Chantry types would say the Maker already showed Loghain His favor once, and I'm not one to pass up even a faint hope that He might do it again."

* * *

Loghain walked through the streets of the Alienage, marveling at how little changed it was from the way it had always been. Sick elves lined the street, falling-down buildings leaned crazily, garbage had obviously not been collected in some time - just as always, in his experience. There were perhaps _more _sick elves than usual. If his father had been like the bulk of human men with half-blood get, he and his mother would have been forced to live in a place much like this, perhaps worse.

There were small improvements, he saw. The streets had been repaved and leveled out, a convenient byproduct, for the Crown, of the new sewers that drained the area. Elilia had some plans for this place, he knew, even though she had not seen fit to divulge them to him. He suspected it was her idealism at play, that nothing would ever truly change for these poor bastards, but he hoped whatever she was plotting would bear fruit. Of course, if _his_ plot didn't bear fruit, there would be no point in working to improve this place. The elves would be dead.

And so would he, no doubt. Funny how little the idea of that had ever really bothered him. Not that he particularly looked forward to what, if anything, came after.

He found an elf who was healthy enough to walk. "Gather your people," he told the young man. "Everyone who has any strength left must help those who haven't. Children and mothers of small children will receive medicine first. Tell your folks to be _orderly_ about it or no one may be treated at all."

The hopeless dullness of the man's face held for a brief instant, then was gradually supplanted by the terror that was a corollary to sudden dawning hope in one who barely knew such a thing existed. He raced off. Loghain moved to the center of the alienage and positioned himself beneath the vhenadahl, where he began unstrapping his leather chest piece. He pulled it off and began to work the tight knots that held the little pouch of ashes safely inside it. How dismally small it looked, especially with how jam-packed the alienage seemed to be. He would save who he could.

Someone walked up on his blindside. "My mother had that same tattoo on her arm," a male voice said, wonderingly. He turned his head and saw a pair of elves, similar enough in appearance to be relatives. They were hale enough to walk, but that was about all that could be said for them. The one who'd spoken was a man with long black hair pulled back tightly in a single braid, while the other was a redheaded woman who wore her knotted hair short. He recognized that one from the Battle of Denerim. She was looking suspiciously at him. The man was staring fixedly at the small tattoo on his left bicep, the only "ink" he'd ever marked himself with. Words in the Common alphabet but in the Dalish tongue said what one of his men had assured him was "Night Elves watch the line," though he'd always suspected they actually said something along the lines of "Filthy Shemlen rooked us good."

"Then your mother was with the Night Elves," he said. He searched his memory for a face that matched his. "Adaia Imura, right? One of my later recruits."

The elf's black eyes went wide. "You…remember my mother?"

"What is this 'treatment' you've promised?" the redhead burst out angrily. "As I recall it, the _last _treatment you brought to the alienage saw half our people sold to the sodding Tevinters."

"Well there's no Tevinters this time. There's just me and this little bag of medicine, and we'll do this all out in the open where you can watch me close. Do you have small children, Ma'am?"

"No, she doesn't," the man answered for her.

"Then I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to wait. Can you help bring the little ones and their mothers to me?"

"We can." The man grabbed the still-glaring redhead by the arm and pulled her away. "Come on, Shianni, if he can help us we need to let him, right?"

Word that help was at hand spread throughout the alienage quickly, and in a matter of moments there was a remarkably orderly queue of mothers with squalling, coughing children, in many cases the mothers themselves supported by someone less sick. Loghain didn't even bother to put his armor back on. He began to cure the elves, using the smallest pinches of ashes he could manage. There was a depressingly long line of patients.

When the first screaming, hacking infant was treated and its coughs and cries were silenced, someone shouted, "He killed it!"

The mother, sick and coughing herself, cuddled her child close to her breast and said, "No! She's fallen asleep! She's well! Oh, thank the Maker!"

Loghain gave her the next pinch of ashes and she took the first deep breath she'd been able to draw in a month. "This is a miracle medicine. Oh, thank you, Ser - so much!"

There was a momentary scramble after that, everyone wanting to be next in line, but Loghain silenced the outcry with a stern word. "You will all have your turn," he said, though he seriously doubted the truth of that. "Settle."

The line stretched out forever, and even before he reached the last of the children and mothers he began to expect to feel the bottom of the pouch beneath his gloved fingers as he reached in. But against his expectations, the ashes held out until the last mother and child were well. "The sickest of the young men and women next," he commanded.

There were many more of those, as it was mostly young men and women who came to Ferelden from the Free Marches, looking for work, hoping to set aside coin enough to start a new and better life. By the time he was halfway through the throng, Loghain noticed something he probably should have noticed before. The little pouch of ashes…was not getting any emptier. He'd used enough of his tiny sparing pinches to empty a _grain sack, _he thought, but the small leather poke was still mostly full. Just another miracle? He had to assume so.

The black-haired man, who had not yet had any treatment himself, and the red-headed woman, who hadn't either, half-carried an elderly man up to him, cutting the entire line.

"Please, Ser," the young man said. "This is our Hahren, and he's terribly ill. I know you said you were only treating the young, but he's too important to us to lose him. Can't you please heal him now?"

"Loghain, I told you, I'll not take cure from the young," the old man said. Loghain was momentarily confused as this man had told him nothing. The black-haired elf blanched and then blushed.

"He was speaking to me, Ser," he said. "I expect you've met a lot of people named in your honor."

Oddly, he had not. Scores of _Marics, _of course, that had been the most popular name for Ferelden boys born during the early days of the Restoration, and either Rowan, Moira, or Maricia for the lasses, but he could not recall ever in his life meeting another Loghain. He digested this surprise and moved past it.

"It's all right, Sergeant," he said to the old man. "I have plenty of cure for everyone. You needn't fear that anyone will suffer on your behalf."

The old man stared at him wide-eyed, then clapped a weak hand on his shriveled bicep. "Night elves…watch the line," he said, voice weak with sickness and wonderment.

"Elder…you were in the Night Elves, too?" the young elven Loghain said in surprise.

"I was."

"Valendrian was one of my earliest recruits," Loghain said. "He was a Night Elf before the Night Elves were a properly recognized company at all."

He gave the old man a pinch of the ashes, and then cured the two younger people as well. They looked quite healthy and fine once the miracle had its way with them, and even Valendrian, old though he was, could stand under his own power once the illness was gone. He was not, after all, quite as old as he looked - in the way elves had of doing he'd stayed youthful-looking for longer than most humans and then he'd aged quite rapidly once the process began, and barely looked any older now than he had ten years or so ago. He was only a very little bit older than Loghain himself.

"Go to your wife and child, by boy," Valendrian said to the young man. "Nesiara and Adaia were healed already, were they not?"

"They were, Hahren," elf-Loghain said. He directed a half-bow at Loghain. "Thank you for that, Ser - er, milord."

He left then, taking the redhead with him. Valendrian stayed as Loghain continued dealing out cure to the sick elves, no longer worried that he would run out. "Loghain Tabris; a fine young man. I suppose you can guess that there were many in the alienage who tried to convince him to change his name after what happened with the slavers? Myself among them. He said that it was the name his mother gave him, and he would keep it no matter what."

Loghain nodded, but merely continued to dole out the ashes in silence. After a time the old elf spoke again. His voice burst out as if under torture.

"Why did you do it?" he said, and shook his grey head angrily. "Why did you turn on us? Of all the shems in the world, you were the one we counted most as _friend._ What did we do to deserve our fate?"

Loghain sighed. "Valendrian. Your people did _nothing_ to deserve it. Why I did it I can't seem to figure, I only know that I _did. _I'll not waste your time and mine by asking forgiveness for the unforgivable."

Valendrian shuffled uncertainly for a time. "There was…a mage, with the slavers. There were many, but this one was their leader. This one held the documents you signed granting him his right to take us. I saw him using blood magic."

"There is some speculation that I may have been enthralled, to some degree. But I was not completely out of my own head, Valendrian: There is no excuse to be had there. And even if no one held any diabolical influences over me at all…I could still see myself committing that terrible crime. If the need was great enough. If it seemed there was no other recourse."

"How? How could you of all people ever do such a dreadful thing? Freedom is the very ideal you fought so hard for, isn't it? Or was only _your _freedom important? Were we just tools in your rebellion?"

"We were _all _the tools of Ferelden freedom," Loghain answered. "Any one, or dozen, or hundred of us was expendable, to me. I made myself _cold, _Valendrian, long before ever I picked up a sword in the name of my King. When you view people as resources rather than as friends, it doesn't hurt you so badly when you lose them."

"The nation stands upon the brink of war," the old Hahren said quietly. "If you needed gold more than you needed laborers, would you do it again now?"

"I don't know. I'm not…the man I was then."

"In my experience, people don't change that much."

"I didn't change _much, _I just changed _enough. _The Warden knocked most of the pride out of me. Maybe that was something that ought to have happened years before, or maybe it was the worst thing that ever happened. Either way, I can't…_hide _anymore. I can't put on my armor and pretend that's all there is to me. I can't act like I just don't _give a damn."_

He shook his head. "But I don't know. If things were grim…if I saw no other way…I probably could still sign some devil's contracts. But what I don't understand is why I _did. _I needed soldiers much more than I needed gold. Why did I not think to create another company like the Night Elves? There was sickness in the alienage but it was nothing like this. Fresh air away from the filth and closeness of the city might have cured a lot of it. Of course…perhaps none of you would have fought for me."

"We would have fought. We would have been glad of the chance to defend our homes against the darkspawn, and glad of the chance to prove ourselves for our Regent and Queen. That young man who just left us is a stellar warrior, skilled both with bow and with blades. Most of the others had never held a weapon, but they would have seized upon the chance regardless."

"Howe, of course, that you were rioting and could not be controlled."

Valendrian snorted derisively. "There is always unrest and discontent in the alienage, Loghain, you know that. But the sum total of our 'revolt' was for two of our young men - Loghain, and his cousin Soris, as a matter of fact - to enter the Arl's estate in search of the young women that Vaughan kidnapped. In the process of rescuing the ladies, who included their cousin Shianni and the young men's brides-to-be, they killed a good many guards and two of Vaughan's noble drinking partners. Vaughan himself escaped, which is the only part of the entire ordeal I regret. The bastards had killed one of the poor girls before ever Loghain reached them. Nola, a shy, pious child. Shianni was raped and beaten."

"When they returned to the alienage Loghain's father and I managed to convince the lad it was best if he leave Denerim for a time, and we smuggled him out. He was always very courageous and outspoken, we knew that when the guards came he would stand up and take credit for what he'd done, and then he would be lost to us forever. Soris, on the other hand, was a timid young man, and Cyrion thought he would be able to hide him and keep him safe. We could not bear the thought of sending _two _of our young men away into uncertainty. We were fools, because the Arl's men came and uncovered Soris' hiding place easily enough, and that was the last we saw of him until the Warden found and set him free a year later. When Vaughan couldn't find Loghain he was incensed, but he assuaged his feelings by stringing up a poor broken-legged beggar he found, and I think in the intervening years he has managed to convince himself that was the man who killed his friends. He doesn't even recognize Loghain when he comes to the alienage these days, or any of the women. Of course, I suppose its easy for such as he _not _to see us."

"Howe came to Denerim before even you had returned from Ostagar, and I believe his sole intention was to secure the Arling for himself. Vaughan disappeared, Howe claimed we had killed him, and sent in soldiers to 'restore peace.' I'm not entirely certain how killing the residents of a children's orphanage restores harmony or brings justice, but that is only the _most_ horrible of the things they did. The plague, I think, was a direct result of the dead who were left to rot in the streets and buildings for days before anyone came to burn the bodies, and perhaps of a suspiciously-timed outbreak of rabies amongst the dogs, and when the slavers came to 'help' I completely lost all hope for the elves of Denerim."

Loghain was silent for a long time, until he said, "I was a fool. My head was clouded with paranoia and fear."

"If it was clouded by more than that, milord…then I for one am glad to leave the past behind us."

Valendrian stayed by him while he finished handing out ashes to the sick elves. He was left with a leather pouch not noticeably depleted and more than a thousand healthy and exceedingly grateful elves.

"There is one more sick elf," Valendrian said gently. "The young stranger we found whose illness caused this outbreak. Can you cure him, as well? I cannot understand him when he speaks, but I am sure he holds no blame for what happened here. He was obviously carried here inside the crate we found broken open around him, left as so much refuse by those who wished to kill us all."

"Take me to him."

"He is in my house. It is right over here." Valendrian led him to the nearby shack and let him inside. A young blond man lay on a rough straw pallet in the back of the single room, clearly very near death and at least semi-delirious. He rolled his eyes at Loghain as they approached and babbled incoherently in Orlesian.

"Easy, now…" Loghain said, and sprinkled a dose of ashes on the young man's face. A hacking, blood-spattering cough transformed midway into a gasp of surprise and the young man's sapphirine eyes blinked several times before opening with clarity in their depths. His burst of Orlesian gratitude was so fast and continuous that it might as well have been incoherent for all the sense Loghain could make of it. He did hear _"Merci messere!" _more than a few times, but he didn't know if it was directed at him or the Maker, whom the Orlesians often addressed that way.

"Woah, slow down there, Chatterly," he said. He spoke slowly himself, uncertain whether the man could even understand the King's tongue. "What is your name and from where do you come?"

The man watched his lips with the attentiveness of a deaf man, and seemed to understand at least the gist of his words, but evidently he was too excited to be alive and well to slow his own speech. Loghain thought he caught something that sounded like "Sabine" and "Tremmes" amidst the tangle of phrases.

"Well Sabine of Tremmes, if that is what you said, I don't know if you have anything to say that we haven't already figured out about this mess, but I think it best if you come along with me to the Palace and tell your story to the translators there. I don't know what we can do, if anything, about getting you home, but perhaps that's a place to which you don't even wish to return. I expect you're hungry. We'll feed you up proper. Valendrian, I'll see to it that the quarantine is lifted and the street cleaned and refuse carted away and burned properly. Do your people require anything else? I just got back to the city and I'm not certain what aid is available, but I'll see to it that whatever can be done _is."_

"We…could use some grain, if there is any surplus," the Hahren said, a bit shyly. "We haven't had fresh supplies of food since the alienage was locked down, and people are running out. No one has had work with which to earn any, and they'll need a decent feeding before they'll have the strength to work now."

Loghain nodded. "Food will be sent. There are an awful lot of elves here these days. Where are you housing them all?"

"Wherever there is room to spare. I have four families sharing my own quarters, in addition to Sabine."

"I'll see if something can't be done about making the living conditions less cramped. I understand why they would not want to be quartered outside the alienage, but perhaps a spot could be found at least temporarily where the overflow can stay and be sheltered from the elements and protected from the humans."

"That…would be welcome, certainly. Thank you."

"Come on then, Chatterly," Loghain said, and Sabine followed him out of the Hahren's tiny house with all the wide-eyed eagerness of a puppy. Loghain collected his armor from beneath the vhenadahl and gave himself a warding sprinkle of ashes, just to be sure. He wasn't going to save the alienage only to bring this illness to the palace.


	38. Chapter 38

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **In response to a recent review I suggested that I suspected Loghain was based in part on the historical figure of William Wallace, who fought for Scottish independence and was memorialized badly by Mel Gibson on the silver screen. Well that's only one of the influences I draw my particular idea of the character from. Some chapters ago I mentioned Shaka Zulu (the legend of that King at least), and I also see a bit of General William Tecumseh Sherman in Loghain, marching to Atlanta leaving scorched earth and wailing widows in his wake. There is a LOT of George Smith Patton ("Remember that no bastard has ever won a war by dying for his country; he won it by making some OTHER poor bastard die for HIS country" - immortal words I am sure Loghain would agree with wholeheartedly) and there is even a touch of Don Quixote in there, too. But in this chapter we see a little of the brutality of the Wallachian prince Vlad Tepes, who achieved his immortality by making a family nickname so infamous that one of the greatest monsters in horror fiction bears his likeness. Not that Vaughan doesn't have it coming.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Seven: A Pointed Message**

For hours Champion stood outside the great barred gate and barked, snarled, and growled imprecations at the bone-headed human who denied her entrance. If she were but full-grown he would not be so foolish; his rusty iron chainmail would not stand as sufficient protection from her teeth once they were powered by adult mabari jaw muscles. She had to get inside the walled-off place where her master had gone, even though he had commanded her to stay out. Her place was to be at his side through any danger, and danger lurked within. She smelled sickness and despair in there.

Tired and thirsty, she laid off barking for a time and simply whined plaintively. "Look, I know you want in, but you ought to know well's I do that you just don't go against _Loghain Mac Tir's _express orders," the guard said. "Sure, maybe he wouldn't take it out on _you _if I let you in, but think of what he'd do to me! I've got a wife and four little ones depending on me, I can't throw my life away like that."

Champion lay down in the street, covered her face with her front paws, and howled mutedly.

"Here, now, don't carry on so. The next watch will be coming on soon - when I'm relieved I'll get you a nice hambone and a bowl of clean water. I'm sure your master will be just fine and he'll be out before nightfall."

He was as good as his word. Champion accepted the food and water with a bitter sort of resignation and gnawed aggressively at the bone, sawing through to the marrow within. It helped a little, but she remained angry and depressed. The guards were only being properly submissive to an Alpha human, it wasn't really their fault she was on the wrong side of the wall. She heaved a great sigh and rested her head on one paw to wait, listless and dejected.

It was nearly evening before the gate shook beneath the blow of a heavy fist. "Open up, damn you," the master's voice bellowed out quite clearly from behind it. The guardsman that had replaced the other nearly fell over himself to obey as swiftly as possible. Champion rose to her feet, tail a-wag. The door swung open and the master ducked out from under the rising portcullis before it was fairly off the ground and the guard made as if to lower it again just as quickly. _"Don't close it. _The alienage is no longer under quarantine - _by my orders."_

"Er…yes, Ser," the guard said, a bit doubtfully.

Champion ran to meet her master and crouched tensely. She knew it was a crime to Jump Up On, but her happiness needed outlet, so she gave vent to a high leap in the air and spun around three times quickly and leaped again. She might have continued in that manner for some time if a shocking event hadn't squashed her enthusiasm.

With a gibber of Orlesian that encompassed the phrase _"belle chien," _a small, skinny human-like being darted out from behind the master and threw itself upon her. She sat back on her haunches, affronted and bemused, too astonished by the liberty even to growl.

"Chatterly, it's not particularly wise to leap out at a strange dog like that," the Master said, "even if that dog is _not_ a mabari war hound. Fair warning."

Champion extricated herself from the small man's embrace with some difficulty and attempted to regain her composure. She knew elves, she didn't particularly mind them, and this one was apparently now an attachment of her master much as the magic-smelling female was an attachment of her master's mate. But if this one flung himself at her again she would take exception to it with her teeth. He clearly needed to learn his proper place. The Master was at the top of this pack, Champion below him, and all others _well _below her.

Loghain patted Champion's head and gave her an ear-scratch of reassurance, then led her and Sabine through the market district to the palace. The whole way, Sabine gabbled in rapid-fire Orlesian, exclaiming excitedly over everything from the stalls in the bazaar to the Chantry and the estates of the nobles, the children playing tag or running errands in the streets, the dogs dogs dogs dogs everywhere. He seemed remarkably impressed with Denerim, which made it a bit hard to credit that he was native Orlesian. They were always so denigrating of all things Ferelden, so very primitive and dour compared to their love of luxury and frippery. Loghain knew nothing of Tremmes other than the name, but perhaps it wasn't much of a city. Or maybe this elf was some sort of innocent, in the good old Ferelden sense of being not quite all right between the ears, and was excited by everything from fireworks exploding to corn growing.

That would certainly explain some things about him.

In any event, the boy was thin as a rake and eyed the food stalls with clear covetousness, so Loghain detoured to the servant's entrance of the palace and dropped him off in the kitchens to be fed before being questioned by the translators. Loghain had things to attend to in the meantime anyway, and he might as well get them taken care of now as later. It was not easy to get Sabine to understand that he needed to stay and eat.

"Stay here, I'll be back," he repeated several times in the face of the young man's growing consternation. "The kitchen staff will feed you. You know, food. Erm…_mangiare_. Wait - that's Tevinter, isn't it?"

But Sabine's face lit up like an oil lamp and he commenced a rapid-fire dialogue in that language. Loghain groaned and threw up his hands in defeat. Saddled with a simple-minded Orlesian who spoke every language except Common? Unbelievable. "Just…stay here and eat. I'll be back later."

He made his way through the dark stone corridors towards the throne room. When he reached the area near the living quarters he chanced upon a young lady in fine dress who appeared startled out of all countenance to see him. "M-m-my lord!" she gasped out, and dropped into a low curtsey. "Her Royal Majesty has been quite worried about you."

He studied her for a moment, wondering exactly who she was. She looked to be in her late twenties, had short, dark hair artfully tousled and black eyes, and her crimson gown was daringly cut to expose nice shoulders and a remarkably well-filled décolletage. A new courtier, perhaps…or a new _courtesan. _If the latter, though, she seemed unusually shy, and then there was the matter of the fine staff she carried at her back. One of Alistair's apostates, then. Good, Ferelden needed magic.

"An unfortunate practical consequence of the elves being quarantined, I suppose, but that floor looks as though it hasn't been scrubbed in a month," he said conversationally. "Do get up off it, child, before you spoil your nice dress."

She rose, a pretty blush suffusing her pale cheeks. "You are a mage?" Loghain asked, and the girl started guiltily like someone caught doing something nasty and shameful. "Never fear, child - you're safe from templars under _this_ roof, I guarantee it. What is your name?"

She tipped a slighter curtsey. "Bethany Hawke, milord," she mumbled.

"Bethany Hawke? I know someone who was looking forward to seeing your family again. Have you had the chance to meet with the dwarf yet?"

"The…dwarf?" Bethany said doubtfully, then her face cleared and she smiled. _"Varric?"_

"That's the one."

"He did not come to the palace, milord. He is in town, though?"

"Last I saw him he was at a tavern down the docks."

She laughed lightly. "He's probably still there, then. Pubs are his natural habitat." She curtseyed again. "Thank you for this news, milord. I shall tell my sister - she will be happy to know Varric is here."

He nodded a good day to her and moved on. So that was one of the Hawke girls. Pretty creature, with nice manners to boot. If it hadn't been for her magic she would have undoubtedly been married to some wealthy man by this time, perhaps even a lord. He'd heard that the Hawkes had some claim to noble title through their mother's line, even if that nobility was foreign. Well, perhaps one day Ferelden would be a place at last where mages could be free to lead normal, healthy lives like regular folks. They were dangerous, yes, but any more so than he? He doubted that. He'd killed enough mages in his time, abominations too, and even _demons_ had no great power to frighten him. Even before Elilia passed on to him a few templar secrets he had developed a certain disdain for the platoons of well-armored Chantry soldiers who claimed it was such a tremendous hardship to hunt down maleficarum, who claimed that whole companies had been wiped out by a single abomination. Either they were spreading wild tales to keep people fearful and beholden to them, or they were laughably inept.

Or both.

He entered the throne room and was surprised to see a full court, though it appeared in recess. The King and Queen sat on their thrones in an attitude of waiting, nobles and courtiers lounged in impatient manner in the gallery, guards and attendants stood at full attention. Elilia started up from the edge of the dais where she sat when she saw him.

"Loghain, you rat bastard," she growled out, and ran across the long floor to fly at him in an unseemly public display of relief and affection. She pulled away a bit and looked at him curiously. "You used…?"

"I did."

"The elves?"

"They are well."

"All of them?"

"All of them."

He stepped out of her embrace and addressed the King and Queen. "Your Majesties, the alienage has been saved, but there is much work to be done there. The elves need food, and the streets must be thoroughly cleansed and the garbage burned. They need more housing, for the tight quarters that exist there now simply breeds disease. And the bodies of the dead must be properly burned. I did not see any, however, and it is my understanding that the disease kills very slowly, so perhaps there are but few."

Arl Vaughan stepped forward. "I will not waste this arling's hard-earned taxes taking care of a bunch of lazy, worthless elves."

Fast as lightning Loghain closed the distance between them, grabbed Vaughan by his hair, and yanked his head back so that they were staring straight into each other's eyes as he loomed over the smaller man. For a long time he said nothing, very ominously, his eyes flashing cold fury, and Vaughan was reminded of the demonstration of the harbor statues and gulped his terror. Finally Loghain spoke.

"I don't require much of an excuse to end you, you miserable bastard." He gave the man a bit of a shake, like a naughty puppy, to emphasize his words.

"You are no noble of this court," Vaughan said, with a tinny note of fear in his bravado. "I could have you killed right now for this, and if you raise a hand to me you'll swing by nightfall."

"Shut your mouth, you little puke," Loghain said, with another, harder shake. "If I had power in this court you'd do worse than swing. I would take a long sharp stake, grease it up nice and slippery, and I'd shove it up your ass so the point came out your mouth, and then I'd set that stake in a posthole inside the alienage and let the elves point and jeer at you. Or perhaps strip you naked and throw you in a pit with a couple of dozen elven women armed with flails and maces, and let them work their own justice upon you. That's what _you_ deserve, you fucking rapist."

Champion growled low and throbbingly at the man her master held by the scruff, ready to attack upon command. The man smelled bad, of lies and vices, and she would welcome an opportunity to rend him to pieces.

"You…have no right…to address me so impudently," Vaughan squeaked out, cringing and shrinking into his clothes. "Your Majesties, I demand satisfaction!"

"Satisfaction?" Alistair said, interestedly. "Are you calling for a duel, then? Because I really don't think you want to do _that, _Vaughan, now do you?"

"Be a good lad and step back into line, Vaughan," Anora said. She sounded a trifle bored and out of sorts. "The alienage _will_ be cleaned, and the arling of Denerim will _not_ pay for it - _you_ will, out of your own private funds. I hardly think it will break you, and it's high time you offered up an act of proper charity towards your elven population, isn't it? The Grand Cleric will be so pleased with you, she will undoubtedly offer your name to the Maker in special prayer. The Crown will send the needed foodstuffs, so you needn't worry your pointy little head about _that."_

"The issue of housing the elves is a weighty one," Alistair said. "That will require some thought. There is the warehouse back of the alienage, but I know that has some...unpleasant connections with the Denerim elves. The Marchers might not mind, though."

Loghain released Vaughan at last and the man fell back at once, ruffled, sputtering, straightening his doublet and attempting to regain some lost face. "Never in all my life have I been so insulted - "

"Get used to it, then," Loghain broke in. "It's high time _somebody_ called a spade a spade with you, and I can assure you, _My Lord _- I will be watching you _very closely _from this point forward. If I get wind that you've resumed your habits with regard to the young ladies of the alienage I assure you, the court may punish me for _your death _as they see fit. I will consider it a worthy end."

Tense silence held for a goodly moment after that, and then Anora changed the subject briskly. "Father, I would like to introduce you to someone. Champion Hawke; my father, Loghain Mac Tir. Father; Champion Kireani Hawke, late of Kirkwall, returned now to this, her homeland."

A white-haired woman who stood at attention behind the thrones stepped forward and bowed in the manner of a man, appropriate enough as she was wearing armor of odd, foreign design. She was much plainer of feature than Bethany, whom he saw had entered the throne room through a side entrance to stand beside her sister, but there was something of a resemblance about the mouth and chin. "My Lord," she said.

"Champion Hawke," he said, with a return of the bow. "I have heard much of you through your friend Varric."

"Bethany told me you'd seen him. I look forward to catching up with him." She made a proper introduction of her sister and the other companions who stood near her, some of them wearing the uniform of the Royal Guard. "This is Ser Aveline and her husband Ser Donnic, now of the Queen's retinue, and this is Ser Fenris, now guard to the King. And this is my companion, Merrill, formerly of the Dalish."

The elf, rather a tall and exceedingly slender specimen with an astonishingly long, fragile-looking neck and huge spring green eyes, stepped forward and cocked her head to one side as she considered him. "Well, _he's_ got a nice, elfy face, doesn't he?" she said after a time. "It's like someone took a Ferelden nose and chin and slapped them on a Dalish head. I thought so when I saw the statue, but it was a bit hard to tell with it being all white and stoney and huge."

"Oh, Kitten...human lords don't generally care to be told they look elfy," a dark-haired woman wearing what appeared to be a white corset with an attached loincloth and essentially nothing more than that said, with a shake of her bandanna-covered head. Hawke introduced her next, deliberately ignoring both her elven friend's inappropriate comment or the sudden lack of blood in Loghain's face upon hearing it. Never in his adult life had _anyone_ accused him of looking "elfy." Someone Up Above was fucking with him, there was no question about it.

"And this is Captain Isabella, who now holds the speed record for the Denerim-to-Cumberland oversea."

The seafarer stepped forward, with a cocky strut in her over-exposed hips. She looked him up and down the way a woman at market might eye a ham haunch or a side of beef. "Not bad at all," she said. She nodded at Elilia. "You've got pretty good taste, even if he is a bit long in the tooth. Care for a nice group rumble? He looks like he could handle us both with ease." Anora put a hand over her eyes in clear despair.

"I…thanks, but…I'm a one-at-a-time girl," Elilia said uncomfortably.

Isabella chuckled. "That's disappointing. When I discovered I'd had sex with someone immortalized in a thousand foot statue I was walking around close to that high myself. I was hoping to be able to drink for life on the story of having done _both."_

Loghain turned sharp eyes on his intended, and she shrugged back at him. "It's…I'll tell you later," Elilia said.

"I apologize for my _friend," _Champion Hawke said, and shoved Isabella back behind the glowering Ser Aveline. "We shouldn't let her out of her kennel but she does look so mournful in there at times, we forget she's not housebroken."

From the line of courtiers, Nathaniel Howe cleared his throat and stepped forward. "While everyone was rushed and worried about the situation in the alienage it did not seem appropriate to deliver this, but now that things have been settled perhaps this is the proper time. Elilia, I bring a message we received a little over a month ago, from the First Warden at Weisshaupt. I thought it might make you laugh to read it."

He handed her a small scroll bound in a blue ribbon, the blue wax seal broken. She unrolled the parchment and read a few lines, then laughed and began to read aloud.

"Wardens of Ferelden:

Word has come to my ears of the misconduct of your Warden-Commander. I have tolerated much unusual and outright belligerent behavior from this quarter for too long. Warden-Commander Elilia Cousland is hereby relieved of command and ordered to report to me at Weisshaupt Fortress immediately for disciplinary measures. I am sending my own Second, Senior Warden Guillemot du Plesse to assume command and restore order."

She tore up the parchment and tossed the pieces into the air. "I guess this was sent out before I sent my letter of resignation, if he ever received it," she said. "Guillemot du Plesse - anyone care to take wagers on whether or not that's an Orlesian name? Of course he's a good Warden, all non-interferency and such, but I wonder just how…_neutral_ the Wardens really are in this affair. Orlais has a lot of power and a lot of gold and the Chantry in their back pocket. Maybe they've got the Wardens, too. The First Warden has exerted a _lot _of influence in the rule of the Anderfels, we're told, and the Anders are such a _devout_ people, after all."

"This is why it was a stupid-ass move to give the arling of Amaranthine to the Wardens," Loghain growled.

"What do we do about this Orlesian Warden?" Alistair asked. "Any suggestions?"

Nathaniel grunted a sardonic laugh. "I say when he arrives we send him right back home to the First Warden - in a box, if need be."

"I like the way you think, lad," Loghain said.

"The Wardens of Ferelden were on their own almost utterly during the Blight," Nathaniel continued. "Your Majesty knows that better than I. And even after, as Elilia made to rebuild the order, she was given little assistance other than a handful of Orlesians and a tight-fisted treasurer - and her only other proper Ferelden Warden on active duty was reassigned to bloody _Orlais. _Elilia and I spoke of this often through the years, but I think perhaps it's time the Ferelden Wardens declared their independence from the greater Order. Even if they are neutral in this current conflict they've shown they care not about the protection of our people." He turned to look at Elilia and gave her a slightly cheeky wink. "Oghren is behind us on this, as are Sigrun and Velanna and the other Senior Wardens. Even Mistress Woolsey agrees that Ferelden has resources enough, at the present time, to break off - and she's frustrated enough by the First Warden's many barricades to even _her _work that she supports the idea of being free of him. With mages breaking free of the Circles right and left, and templars breaking free of the Chantry to hunt or to help them, who is going to be surprised at Wardens cutting ties with _their _foreign powers?"

"We have enough…_Joining potion_…in storage to keep our Order strong for a thousand years," Elilia said. "I'm certainly all for this, even if I'm not a Warden anymore."

"This is a very interesting discussion but one I think is best saved for the upcoming Landsmeet," Anora said. "Can you return to us at that time, Warden Nathaniel? I would like very much for you to address them yourself, particularly as you are acting Warden-Commander and command the arling's vote."

Nathaniel bowed deeply. "I will be there, Your Majesty, but I must return to Amaranthine as soon as possible. I left good men in charge of the situation there, and the _Fighting Ferelden's _victory over the Orlesian fleet raised the city's spirits considerably, but fears there are still very high and chaos has been the order of the day."

Loghain grunted. "The dwarf said you've got a sick elf you've been treating with the Chantry's medicine," he said. "Speak to me before you leave and I'll give you a dose of the stuff I used to cure the elves of Denerim. Handle it carefully, and wear gloves - we're not sure if contact affects efficacy."

"That would be wonderful. I was under the impression there _was_ no cure for this disease."

"There is now, but no telling exactly how much quantity is available, and more cannot be made. _Be careful with it."_

Elilia whispered to him. "There's some left over?"

"We'll talk later," he muttered back. "About that and _other things_. You bet your sweet little ass we will."


	39. Chapter 39

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M (You'll know it when you get there.)

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** Alistair's conversation with Aveline was inspired in part by a PM conversation with Arsinoe de Blassenville, which was when it first really occurred to me that what always struck me as a ridiculously premature charge on the part of the main army at Ostagar MAY have been done with malicious aforethought by Cailan, who seemed a lot like a kid trying to rise up out of the shadow of a famous father and uncle-figure. Maybe he thought he could have everything mopped up even before the flanking charge arrived, and fling his success in Loghain's face?

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Eight: Snatches of An Evening**

"Elder, why did you never tell any of us that you were with the army during the rebellion?"

Valendrian sighed. "I went from a latrine-digger to a soldier without ever quite knowing exactly how it came to pass. And then I went from soldier to common citizen of this alienage also without any easy transitional period. It was hard for me to understand how it happened, I thought it might well be impossible for anyone else."

"But you served. You were a hero of the rebellion, one of Loghain's Night Elves - a _sergeant! _How many elves ever actually received any sort of rank before, or since? All the tales we heard about the glories of the _humans _who fought - when we could have been hearing tales of the glory of the elves!"

Valendrian shook his head sadly. "War is not glorious, child, and any human who tells you otherwise is either recruiting or has not seen much of it himself. The best that can be said of it is that it is, at times, an unfortunate necessity. The glory comes not from the war but from the warrior, who serves as faithfully as he can, performs his duty to the best of his ability, and then tries his hardest to put the pieces of his life back together in the aftermath, if he is so lucky as to survive. It is…difficult to speak of one's own experiences with it. Did your mother ever speak of _her_ service?"

"No, but she was…"

"She was lost, of course, when you were still quite young, I know."

"She was _murdered, _you mean," Loghain said, and his handsome face darkened dangerously.

Valendrian shook his head sadly but did not argue the terminology. "Do not let anger poison your soul, child. It is the worst thing you can do for the world, to live with a heart full of hate and fear. It nearly destroyed your namesake, and Ferelden along with him."

Loghain grimaced. "I…I _try_ not to hate, Hahren, I truly do. It is…difficult."

"I know, my child. But for your sake, your daughter's sake, and the sake of all elves, you must try. The only way we can ever hope to change our stars is by changing the perceptions of those who have power over us."

"But how do we do that? Haven't we been trying for a thousand years? It was an elf that killed the Archdemon Zazikel, it was an elf who stood by Andraste and aided her in freeing the slaves of Tevinter, it was elves who kept Maric's army from being utterly destroyed in the early days of his rebellion. How much more must we do before they believe we are worth just as much as they?"

"It is not how much, Loghain, but how many. When all elves, rather than just a few, can rise above their oppression to show the strength and courage they have in their hearts, then the world will change. You may feel your contribution to that effort is but a drop in the ocean, but your fortitude will inspire others to follow the example you set. You are a born leader, Loghain, and our people look to you for courage in dark times. Shine a light for them."

"I…think I understand, Hahren. But…I am afraid."

"Of course you are, my child. Only a fool would not be, and you are many things, but never a fool." The old man smiled, a bit wolfishly. "You are oddly like your namesake, you know, as I remember him from the days of the rebellion. Headstrong and hard-driving. We had secret nicknames for him and His Majesty King Maric, you know - Thunder and Lightning. Maric we called Thunder, Loghain was Lightning."

"Why? Loghain strikes me as the more…thunderous…of the two."

"Ah, but my child, thunder is but a noise. _Lightning _does the work."

* * *

"I have spoken with the elf," the translator said. "It was…difficult. He speaks very quickly, he will not slow down. He seems oddly…simple-minded."

"Oddly?"

"Well, he is quite intelligent and rather well-educated, it seems, just very…childlike in his thinking. And it was quite difficult to get him to focus under questioning. He wanted to speak of everything and anything."

"That sounds about right. What could he tell you of any pertinence?"

"Very little, I'm afraid. He was living in the alienage of Tremmes, manservant to a wealthy merchant of the city, when the disease struck and the alienage was quarantined. Some time ago, he seems a bit vague on when exactly, Men in plague masks came and took him and another elf he knew slightly - Marsellan, he says his name was. 'These will do, let's get out of here,' is all he can remember hearing them say. They were boarded up in wooden boxes and carried a good, bumpy distance, and he says he believes that they were loaded on a ship because the world began to rock and sway and stayed that way for a long while. He was fed only every now and then, bits of potato or the like and an occasional bowl of tepid water shoved through a narrow slot that was kept covered on the side of the box. It was very unpleasant and he was very sick, and Marsellan did not appear to have been loaded onto the same ship so he had no one to talk to. Then things became very vague indeed for him as his illness worsened, and he remembers very little before opening his eyes today and breathing deeply again."

"Well, I didn't really expect any more than that. Did he happen to mention how he came to speak both Orlesian and Tevinter?"

"He touched upon it. I gathered he was a native Orlesian who was…'taken into the service' of a Tevinter magister. He spent some years in Minrathous before his master brought him along on a holiday in Tremmes, thinking his command of the native tongue would be of use to him. He escaped, and hid amongst the elves of the alienage. He did not care to speak to any greater depth on the subject. It does seem that his experiences in Tevinter have disposed him quite favorably toward life in Ferelden. He mentioned in passing that while elves may not be equals, they are at least not typically treated as pretty pets, which experience seems to have carried over into his time in service of Orlesians."

"I am aware of how the Orlesians view elves, yes."

"He also spoke - at great length - of his gratitude towards you. He says that the Maker told him that he must serve you to the end of his days in exchange for the gift of his life."

"Just what I needed. Well, if you're finished with him, tell Sabine he can go back to the kitchens for more feeding if he's hungry again."

The translator looked puzzled. "Sabine? That was not the name he gave me."

"Well, he was awfully hard to understand. What _is_ his name, then?"

"He said that it was…Chatterly."

Loghain stared at the nonplussed translator for a moment, then burst out laughing.

* * *

King Alistair walked into the empty throne room to find Ser Aveline sitting dejectedly on the end of the dais with her chin propped on the heel of her hand.

"Something bothering you, Ser Aveline?" he asked.

Startled, she fairly leapt to her feet. "Your Highness! My apologies, I am off-duty and…"

"Didn't quite feel up for the long walk to your quarters? Something has you down, it's easy to see. What is it?"

She gestured helplessly. "It's…nothing, Your Majesty. It's just…seeing _him_ again, after all these years…in some ways I'm surprised I don't feel worse, actually. Perhaps it was the shock of the statue, and the anger I felt at the reaction of men who weren't even there that horrible night…in any event, its brought back a lot of memories I would have preferred remain dormant."

"Memories of Ostagar? Believe you me, I experienced something similar myself, seeing him again. I was in the tower that night, fighting through the darkspawn that broke up through the Deep Roads, trying to make it to the signal in time - at which I fear I failed spectacularly, though I'm not sure whether that made any difference to the way things worked out."

"I was in the vanguard, Your Majesty, and as far as I could tell…the issue was less that the signal was late than that the charge was bloody early. Even if you'd lit the thing on time and Loghain had charged, I don't know if he would have been on time to change the way it all transpired."

"What do you mean?"

She looked uncomfortable. "I was just a lieutenant, certainly not involved in the planning…but it's hard for me to imagine that our strategy that night was a single volley of arrows, release the hounds, and then charge. It just…didn't make _sense. _There was ample time for our archers to do more damage to the vanguard of the horde, even if the mages didn't have time to set their arrows alight. Flaming arrows are marvelously dramatic, I suppose, but they're really more effective against wooden structures like siege engines and ships anyway. I was…a bit stunned, actually, when the order to charge came so quickly. I remember thinking - " She blushed and closed her mouth tightly.

"By all means, speak your mind," Alistair prompted.

"Well, you see Your Majesty, I remember thinking that His Majesty King Cailan was in a dreadful rush to get out in front of Loghain, to strike down the horde before the flanking charge could be made. To take all the glory for himself. His Majesty seemed very keen on the idea of glory. He didn't even call up but half the bannorn, because he didn't seem to want to share credit for the victory with his uncles. It seemed to me at the time that he didn't want Loghain there, either, calling the strategies and horning in on his great war against evil. He seemed to me…very like a child playing with a line of tin soldiers, and not wanting to share them with the other lads at school."

Alistair frowned deeply, then sighed and shook his head. "I tried to make myself believe otherwise for a very long time afterward, but I had much the same thoughts myself. Since Cailan was so keen on the Wardens I perhaps had a better vantage point from which to view the lead-up to the battle. He and Loghain got into some knock-down drag-out fights over strategy, among other things. I remember Loghain yelling, screaming, and finally actually almost _cajoling_ Cailan into leading the flanking charge instead of commanding the vanguard. 'Imagine the glory of coming to the rescue, Cailan - inspiring the men in the main army to greater valor, and taking the darkspawn completely by surprise.' Cailan wouldn't hear of it. He_ would _stand at the vanguard, and he _would _stand by the Grey Wardens - Loghain didn't want them anywhere _near _the vanguard, and in that he was right even if he didn't know why. It was…all right, I'll admit it. It was a child playing soldier. Except the consequences were much much bigger than scraped elbows and skinned knees. Was he at least of any use up there in the front of the line?"

Aveline's green eyes widened and she pressed her lips together momentarily before at last she relented to speak. "He was…formidable, Your Majesty, but not entirely in a good way. It was awfully tight quarters for an armored knight wielding a two-handed sword, and he did not seem particularly…_practiced_ at controlling his swings. I think more than a few of our men took injury from his backswing, and I saw for myself that Warden-Commander Duncan was one of them."

Alistair's eyes fairly popped. "Wh-_what?"_

She nodded. "It's true, Your Highness. He and King Cailan were fighting very closely, almost back-to-back. Duncan didn't seem to want to let him get too far away, to be honest, I believe he was trying to protect him. But Cailan gave a wild swing, his blade went back almost as high again as he'd swung it, and it sliced right across Warden Duncan's stomach, a dreadful wound. It was while Duncan was staggered from it that the ogre charged. If he hadn't been wounded, I don't think Duncan would have let that thing get a hand on King Cailan. It was terrible, Your Majesty. Duncan slew the beast after, but it was too late for His Majesty, and Duncan had not the strength to battle on after that, I think. It was only at about that time we saw that the signal had been lit. The lack of a responding charge was…_disheartening_, but I can't honestly say that we weren't already feeling defeated."

"Did Cailan charge too soon?" Alistair pondered. "Did he do it deliberately? I should certainly hate to think so, but…it sounds so very like the King I saw at Ostagar before the battle. And to learn that he was ultimately directly responsible for causing Duncan's death…Maker's breath, so much of the blame I've leveled at Loghain for all this time may not truly rest with him at all."

"Perhaps it is the same for me as well, Your Majesty."

* * *

"You require a lady's maid, of course," Anora said, laying out her plans for Elilia's life quite briskly. "Champion Hawke brought with her from Kirkwall quite a nice young woman, an elf named Orana - very quiet and proper and quite accomplished - who needed work. I thought she would do well for you, but it happens she has a remarkable facility with children - oh, very well, I shall admit it, she has a remarkable facility with _Princess Anora _- and I find I cannot spare her. She is the only nursemaid I have ever found who is able to make the child play quietly and go to bed on time! So I shall have to keep making inquiries. Sooner or later I shall find someone suitable.

"Your brother Teyrn Fergus has of course been invited to the annual Great Boar Hunt that takes place prior to Satinalia - have you ever participated? It's rather…_dicey _hunting, to say the least, it always seemed to me that the same thing could be accomplished with much less stress and danger to men and horses if they'd just shoot the bloody things full of arrows instead of riding up on them and poking them with sticks, but men are men, and boars are rather tough animals, and of course they are so very dangerous in the spring if their numbers are not kept down, and the meat provides food for many who might not otherwise eat so well at Satinalia. Father will grumble and curse when he learns we are having it this of all years, but I am counting on you to convince him to participate. The nobles of Ferelden are simply going to have to get _used _to seeing Loghain Mac Tir among their number once more.

"The Landsmeet will be held after Satinalia, of course, and your appointment to the teyrnir of Gwaren will be brought for a vote at that time. I do not expect much, if any, resistance. Your cache in this nation is just too high for the dissenters to risk speaking openly if they object. At worst I expect a few abstentions, mostly from those who will fear your placement puts the Crown in too advantageous a position. We will not announce your engagement until your title is officially ratified. We will not give the objectors ammunition with which to fire until it is too late for them to do so honorably.

"I require your cooperation in that, of course. An embrace in the public eye is one thing," Anora said, affixing Elilia with a severe glare, "but you should take pains that no one sees anything more…_romantic _than that. I will speak to your brother about the engagement when he arrives for the Hunt, of course, but all the arrangements for the wedding have already been made. I intend for the ceremony to take place on First Day, to tie in with the new year's celebrations. The fireworks over the harbor that night will make everything quite splendid, although I was rather worried about them. I asked King Bhelen if the sentinel statues would consider them an attack, and he grunted and said it would be best to deactivate the enchantments that night, just in case. Thankfully it is easily enough done. Their eyes are rather…bright…in any event, so cutting off the magic will make the display easier to see. We shall simply have the _Fighting Ferelden _near at hand, and keep a strong guard presence on the docks, to protect us from any attempted attacks.

"Now, that is all I really had for you at the moment. If you would be so kind as to collect my father and bring him to meet with me in the Little Audience Chamber at six o' the clock tomorrow morning, I shall have some things then to show you both."

* * *

"So this is the fabled cure for Bloody Lung?" Nathaniel asked. He peered into the little paper packet doubtfully. "It…just looks like dust, actually."

"It _is_ dust, so whatever you do, don't sneeze. It works, and that's all that matters."

"And…all I have to do is sprinkle it in the elf's face?"

"That's all you have to do. But remember to wear gloves."

"Right. Of course." Nathaniel folded up the packet and stowed it carefully in a pocket of his leathers. He started to leave, and then hesitated and came back. "I…was wondering if perhaps you might help me with something. I was meaning to ask Elilia, but perhaps there's not so much difference in it, and it seems to me somehow that you might rather…get a 'bang' out of it."

"Speak."

"There is a family of surface dwarves who have worked with the Wardens at Vigil's Keep for a good many years now. The Glavonaks. One of them, Dworkin by name, is…I guess you would call him an inventor. He invented a new exploding powder based loosely upon the Qunari black powder. But he made the mistake of touting his invention too widely, as 'the equal to gaatlok.' The substance is not really the same, but you can imagine that the Qunari took exception to this. They sent a Death Squad after him at the Keep, and even though Elilia and the rest of us put it down without serious casualties and there haven't been any attempts since, Dworkin is still paranoid - and his family, as well. They don't wish to stay at the Keep any longer, and I thought that Dworkin's inventions might help fortify the army. Dworkin's brother, Voldrick, is a master stonemason who could make short work of any such projects here in the city, and Dworkin and his cousin Tammerin are excellent engineers. If you could take them on I know they could be of great service to you, and they would appreciate your protection very much."

"Ha. Well, I've got simple-minded elves and storytelling dwarves and every other sort of strange hangers-on you can imagine. A few more won't make much difference, I suppose, particularly those of the useful sort."

Nathaniel bowed. "I will tell them. They are currently bivouacked in one of the small…er…'inns' by the docks."

"Have them come to the palace, then. Easier to feel safe in a stone fortress than a wooden shack, I expect. I'm sure Their Majesties can be persuaded to find them room."

* * *

Elilia walked into the inner courtyard with no particular destination in mind, simply enjoying some of the last of the decent weather before the storm hit - figuratively and literally, for the sky grew more and more winter like with each passing day, temperatures were dropping, the rain that fell was beginning to ice, even as her life prepared to take her down a new path she had never expected to walk and still wasn't entirely certain she was ready for. She saw a short, stocky blond fellow, back-to, and was startled to recognize the outline.

He turned to her, wide and blameless blue eyes as innocent as a newborn babe's. "Hallo."

"Sandal! How nice to see you! Is your father here with you?"

In response Sandal scratched his ass. She hadn't really expected more. For the longest time it had seemed his only word was, "Enchantment!"

"Ah! Hero!" She turned and saw the old dwarven merchant trotting up to greet her. "May I say how wonderful it is to see you again?" he said. "You have been keeping well, I hope?"

"Well enough, Bodahn. How have you been? I thought you left Ferelden long ago, seeking fortune and adventure."

"Well, I did, actually. Spent years in Kirkwall as the manservant of the Champion herself, as a matter of fact. Not particularly adventurous, I suppose, but then I am getting on in years. My boy and I were prepared to go to Orlais, at the invitation of the Empress, when the trouble broke out there, and the Champion had to leave the city in a hurry. I decided Sandal and I were better off staying with her for the time being, and later on I discovered that the Empress had set a bounty on your friend Loghain's head! That didn't sit quite right by me, so I decided I wanted my boy to have nothing to do with such a lady. And it worked out well enough in the end, for now here we are back home in Ferelden, and my boy is Enchanter to the King!"

"Enchantment?" Sandal inquired hopefully.

"Just so."

"I'm glad," Elilia said with a laugh. "Sandal's special talents are something we don't want the Orlesians to get hold of."

Sandal continued to scratch his ass with one hand, and with the other he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bright runestone. He handed it to Elilia. "Boom," he said simply, and wandered away.

* * *

"Elilia. Damned, I thought we'd never get a chance to ourselves tonight."

"I may have been avoiding you, just a little bit," Elilia said shyly. "Some things just don't want to be told, I fear."

He held up a hand. "First things first." He drew out the pouch of ashes and deposited it in her hand. She hefted it experimentally.

"Maker's breath, Loghain - you said you'd used the ashes to cure the alienage!"

"I did."

"But…that's impossible. It doesn't look like you used any at all!"

"I know."

She stared at the pouch for a long moment, and then slowly handed it back to him. "Keep that very safe, Loghain - it seems you've been handed a very special gift, and I don't think it would be wise to abuse it."

He tucked the ashes away again and gave her a look that clearly said, _What, do you think I'm stupid?_

"If we should ever pass through that region again, I think perhaps I would like to pay another visit to the temple on the mountain. I feel like I ought to, I don't know, ask forgiveness or something. For taking so much more than the allotted pinch."

"If you think you need to do that, then we'll look for an opportunity. It's an awfully long way away, though."

"Ha! If I know you, you'll get wind of a village of apostates in the area and you'll just have to go and check it out."

"Well now that you mention it, I did hear a rumor…"

He grinned, grabbed her by the shoulders, and kissed her. "Now…about this Captain Isabella…"

"Oh Maker…look, it's not what you think, it was just…well, she was a superlative fighter, and I wanted to know the secrets to her technique. She said she'd teach me if I beat her at Wicked Grace, and I'm terrible at card games, so we…came to an 'alternative agreement.'"

"That alternative agreement being that the two of you would do something nasty in the captain's cabin."

"Well when you put it that way it sounds very tawdry, but…yes, essentially."

He sighed and shook his head. "Maker's breath, Elilia, you will be the death of me yet, I guarantee it. Is there anything else about your checkered past I need to know about? I mean, my 'ol fella' isn't going to turn black and drop off or anything, is it?"

"Of course not! You dosed me with the ashes, remember?"

"Ah yes, how could I have forgotten."

She laughed and kissed him. "Don't worry. I tried being a little bit…_adventurous, _perhaps, but it really never was to my taste. Until _you_ came to my bed, that is."

"Don't try buttering me up."

"Are you certain? Because I think that could be rather interesting, really."

He stared at her, and then laughed. "Harlot."

"You love it."

"I do, Maker save me. Just one thing I think we need to make very clear."

"And that is?"

He held up a warning finger. "I sleep with _you. _I do not sleep with you-and, I do not sleep with other women, and I most assuredly do not sleep with other men. Just _you_. I don't care if it is the only thing that can save the bloody world, I will. Not. Sleep with. Anyone. But. You."

"All right, it's a deal."

"Good. Now…" He assumed a pained expression. "What exactly was the draw, if I might be so bold as to ask? Was it the tits? I'm afraid I can't compete with that."

She giggled. "It's not a competition…but if you must know, the simple truth is that women know what women want."

"And I _don't_ know what you want?"

"Hmm, well…"

He grinned wolfishly at her, reached down and unlaced her leather breeches. "Let me know if I'm getting warm," he said, and slipped his hand inside and plunged a finger inside of her. She gasped, cackled, and nodded.

"Warm…yes, I suppose so."

"But still not on par with the raider, I suppose? Well, let's see if we can…raise the bar." With his other hand at the small of her back to steady her, he lifted her bodily off the ground with the hand that pleasured her.

"Oh dear sweet lady Andraste…yes yes, you're strong, now…_oh MAeeAAeeAAker!"_

He lowered her and she slumped limply against his chest. "Yes, that was…better than Isabella. By a fair margin," she said.

He picked her up, cradled in his arms like a child or a bride. "The bed's right over yonder - I want to make sure you're absolutely certain of that."

* * *

It was past dark, and no elf who wasn't utterly insane or a well-armed thug would be out of the alienage past dark if he wanted to live to see morning, but he needed to go before he lost his resolve so it simply couldn't wait until daybreak. He slipped through the streets, keeping to the shadows, hoping to avoid detection, and managed to avoid trouble all the way to the army barracks behind Fort Drakon. This wasn't what the Hahren had meant, he supposed, but it was what he felt he needed to do. His mother had given him a set of skills. He would put them to use for his country and his people, if he were allowed to do so.

He pushed back his hood, girded up his courage, and knocked on the door.

A soldier opened the door, and sighed irritably when he saw that it was an elf. "What do you want?" he asked.

"I'm here to enlist."

The soldier ogled him for a moment, then burst out laughing. He opened the door wide and gestured to a man who sat at a nearby table, holding a hand of cards. "Fredricks - get a load of this knife-ear. He says he's here to enlist!"

The other soldier, older, more worried than derisive, stood up and set down his hand of cards. "Young man, what on earth makes you think you want to be a soldier?" he asked.

"The Orlesians, Ser. They set plague among my people just because we're Ferelden. They would have seen us all dead just to hurt Ferelden's supply of labor. I have a wife, Ser, and a daughter. Adaia. She's seven. I want them to be safe, Ser. I want to fight."

"That is indeed a noble ideal, young man, but I do not think it would be wise to set an elf amongst our men. It would only cause…friction."

"Aw, let him join, Fredricks, why not?" the derisive soldier said, in a surprise turn-around. "The King gave that white-haired knife-ear a bloody knighthood, didn't he? A foreigner, to boot! He'd probably be right chuffed to have a _native_ knife-ear in the soldiery."

"An elf…with a _knighthood?"_

The older soldier nodded. "It's true, young man. I do not know Ser Fenris, but I understand he is a formidable warrior with skills unlike anything seen in Ferelden before. He also has the voucher of the Champion of Kirkwall. But you…you are no warrior, young man, and there is no one to warrant you. Go home to your wife and child. There is nothing for you here."

"I can fight. My mother taught me."

The derisive soldier burst into another hearty gale of laughter. _"Oh, mummy dearest!"_

"She _did. _She was with Loghain's Night Elves." He clapped his bicep twice as he'd seen the Hahren do and said, "Night Elves watch the line."

The derisive soldier grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him into the barracks. "Come on, Fredricks - if you won't sign the lad then I will. We can always use more cavalry fodder, after all, and who knows? Maybe he's worth more than it will cost to feed him."

The older soldier shook his head sadly. "I fear no good can come of this, but…do as you will."

"Too right. Come on, knife-ear. I'll issue you your first weapon."

"What are you called, young man?" the older soldier asked.

"Call me Lightning, Ser."


	40. Chapter 40

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Nine: Urthemiel**

"So…are you as frightened as I am to see what fresh horrors your daughter has to show us?" Elilia said as they made their way to the Little Audience Chamber in the early morning.

"I may be _more_ afraid. I know the sort of trouble my girl gets up to when she's left unsupervised for too long."

"She certainly had ample time to plan out the rest of our lives in minute detail."

"Not terribly impressive, actually. _I'm_ not going to live that long."

Elilia snorted. "I don't think you'll _ever_ die."

"Sick of me already, are you?"

"I didn't say that, I just mean you're awfully…_vigorous _for a man on the wrong side of sixty-five."

"Ha! You should have seen my _father _at this age. Of course, he didn't get very much older than this, but its not like he died in his bed of some wasting disease."

"I wouldn't want your _father_ to demonstrate his strength and virility for me in quite the same way you did last night."

They reached the chamber and the Queen's seneschal announced their arrival. Anora stood before the great blazing hearth, hands folded demurely before her. The dais where she typically received petitioners was closed off by a heavy curtain.

"Ah, excellent. I have been quite looking forward to this: with all that is going on, it is good to have a few pleasant projects with which to relieve stress."

"You haven't relieved ours any, yet, so why don't we get this over with, eh?" Loghain said, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Anora merely smiled. "Allow me just a hint of drama, father; I promise not to drag it out too much."

"In any event, as I'm sure you've already surmised, my pet project for the past several months has been the two of you. The finest dressmaker and tailor in Ferelden have been kind enough to donate their time and materials to the task of fully outfitting the both of you with clothes suitable to your standing in this nation."

"A gold-plated gown for Elilia and a gunny sack for me, I take it," Loghain said. Anora ignored him in very pointed fashion.

"Allow me to present Madam Mellaris and ser Pramin el Sulabar. Their shops are the very cornerstone of the High Market."

The two clothiers stepped out of an alcove at the back of the chamber. The woman, tall, thin, and severe, tipped a graceful curtsey. The man, dark and exotic with a twirled moustache and pointy goatee, bowed low with raised hands. "It was a great honor to serve Her Majesty on behalf of Your Grace," the woman said.

"Likewise for me," el Sulabar said, in his thick Nevarran accent. "The chance to work with amazing materials of such unusual provenance alone was reward enough, but to make clothes that will be worn by so august a personage…'twas the greatest honor of a blessed lifetime."

"What a load of horse - " Loghain began, but Elilia elbowed him hard in the ribs and he was silenced by a wince.

"Now, these good people have made you several fine garments each, but what I am particularly eager to show you are the clothes you will wear for the Royal Ball this Satinalia." Anora clapped her hands together briskly and an elven servant pulled a rope that parted the curtain. A pair of headless mannequins displayed a set of remarkable raiment.

The male dress form displayed a shirt of the finest linen, so white it almost seemed to glow against the dark colors of the rest of the outfit. The sleeves, which were the only parts visible, were quite full down to mid-forearm, where they ended in long, tight cuffs each fastened with three silver cufflinks inlaid with Ferelden opal, dark blue and banded with elusive hints of purples and greens. The gemstone hadn't been mined since the Occupation, thanks to the Orlesians having turned the mines into prison work camps so brutal and unsafe Maric preferred to shut them down rather than send anyone to work there even voluntarily. Buttons of blue-shelled clam, a dark, banded blue that glimmered with a thousand iridescent hints of colors featured prominently on the sleeveless leather doublet, two lines of grand buttons that held the garment closed in single-breasted fashion. The export of blue-shelled clams was one of the sideline industries of Gwaren, and was surprisingly profitable despite how little product there was to be had. In fact, in Gwaren it was not uncommon to hear the natives refer to gold sovereigns as "clams."

The doublet itself was almost identical in color to the buttons, and it rather dazzled the eye. Deep midnight blue, without banding but with definite shifting hues of iridescent color, some shades that did not seem to exist elsewhere in nature; it had a high, rounded collar and gold inlays in discrete but intricate designs at the collar, buttonholes, and hems. The trousers were essentially armored leggings, of the same remarkable leather but without decoration other than, perhaps, a few more straps than was strictly necessary. The cuffs ended below the tops of a pair of high boots with folded tops and riding heels, the amazing blue leather gave way at the ankle to what appeared to be fine dragonscale of the same astonishing color. Gold or, more likely, volcanic aurum tipped the pointed toes and banded the heels.

Elilia's gown was, if anything, even more remarkable. Orlesian silk dyed with indigo merged with the same deep blue leather in a wide waist cinch which was, perhaps quite deliberately, unboned. Dark blue velvet and silver fox fur trim made up the overskirt, draping a skirt of indigo silk. That much of the dress was designed solely with an eye to loveliness, but the rest was an exultation of the virago. The sleeves were leather armor ending in almost-delicate dragonscale gauntlets, and a pauldron of short-spiked tail scales was softened only by a lining of silver fox fur that peeked out from underneath in a narrow band of trim. The décolletage on this gown was not designed with an eye to hiding unfortunate scars, and the whole of her chest below the shoulders from side to side and collarbones to just above the line of her nipples would be exposed and outlined in silver fox trim. Dancing slippers of dragonscale matched Loghain's boots.

"Maker's breath…" Elilia said. She stared for a long time, then tore her eyes away from the mesmerizing shifting colors contained within the leather and scale and said, "That isn't _normal _dragonscale…is it?"

"You recall, perhaps, the difficulty we faced in destroying the carcass of the Archdemon in the wake of the Blight," Anora said. "All we succeeded in doing, initially, was to burn away the muscle and organ tissues, leaving us with a tremendous pile of seemingly indestructible bone, scale, and skin. We piled it in storage in the deepest cellars under Fort Drakon for some years, but its mere presence proved to have a profoundly demoralizing effect upon the men, both in the prison and those stationed to guard them. Finally we took it out and made another attempt to destroy it with fire, using more and stronger fuel and for a longer time than we attempted before. We again failed to destroy it, but we did manage to cleanse it at last of the corruption that made it distasteful. It was still difficult to know what to do with such a strange bounty, outfitting common soldiers or even King's knights with such material seemed almost profane. But to use it to garb those who slew Urthemiel seemed a fine statement. People, particularly nobles, have dreadfully short memories. I intend that no man, woman, or child of Ferelden forget what they owe you for as long as I draw breath."

"Well this will certainly serve to remind them - _and_ me," Loghain growled.

Anora chuckled. "I didn't expect _you _to like it, father - or at least not to admit to it. But it is quite beautiful material, don't you agree? I suppose that is why they called him - or was it a her? Aren't all High Dragons female? - the 'Dragon of Beauty.' And fortunately so dark a blue is a great color for both of you."

"Who did the metalwork and the armor?" Elilia asked. "It is masterful craftsmanship."

"Ah, I am glad you asked. May I present Master Wade?"

The Master smith stepped out of the alcove, beady eyes alight and of course fixed upon his own handiwork. He clasped his hands together reverently and sighed in rapture. "It is unbelievable, isn't it? Never in all my life did I ever dream I would have the opportunity to work with such…such…_glory. _Maker, it is no wonder the Tevinters worshipped the creature, is it? What strength! What beauty! It is the pinnacle of my career, the very peak - the world can hold no greater joy, no greater thrill than that which I experienced while creating with this dream of heaven."

He giggled like a twitter-pated schoolgirl. "And the best…oh, the very best…is yet to be revealed."

"In due time, Master Wade," Anora said. She turned to her father. "Father, I cannot have helped but to noticed that you are no longer wearing heavy plate."

He shrugged his shoulders. "The thing about heavy plate, my dear, is that it is very…heavy."

"A fact which never bothered you in the least previously. I realize that you were an ill man at the Battle of Sulcher, but I do not think your physical strength has failed in the slightest over the years," Anora said. "I understand precisely why you have set aside your armor. You no longer wish to be seen as the man you were. But you cannot hide from who you are, and the way the people of Ferelden perceive you is still overwhelmingly positive - which I'm not certain you realize. The statues in the harbor will doubtless cause interminable debate at the Landsmeet - we've already heard several rather heated petitions - but it is only a handful of the nobles who can't stand to see you receive honors. By and large, they are the same nobles or the heirs thereof who couldn't stand to see you raised above them in the first place. You are a symbol of the strength and courage of this nation, father, whether you like it or not. And you must look the part."

She gestured, and servants pulled aside the dress forms with their astonishing garments. Across the dais behind them was another heavy curtain, drawn shut. "I commissioned these pieces from Master Wade, and I intend the both of you to wear them to this year's Landsmeet, a visceral reminder to the hacked off nobility of just exactly whom they are most beholden to in this world."

The second curtain was opened, and the armor revealed. Dragonbone melded with dragonscale, it was armor very likely of a sort no one in the world had ever seen before, if only for the fact that it was deep and gleaming blue in color. Elilia's suit of mail was very different from the King's mail usually seen in Ferelden. It was, in fact, a rather fanciful weave of links that capitalized upon the shifting, enigmatic hues within the scale. Loghain's massive plate featured the largest of the Archdemon's tail spikes upon the pauldrons. Both suits were decorated with inlay of gold. Notably, both featured in their decoration the yellow wyvern rampant of Gwaren, a bold and rather arrogant move on the part of the Queen if she truly intended for it to be seen at the Landsmeet prior to either of them being appointed the Teyrnir. It would also serve to make the secret engagement rather an _open_ secret, which perhaps she didn't mind. She was evidently willing to be a trifle more aggressive with the bannorn than she'd intimated yesterday.

Interestingly, only Loghain's armor came complete with weaponry. A masterpiece kite shield and a wickedly-designed longsword of the same dark blue bone rested alongside. The shield was blank of heraldry, a faint sop to protocol given the advertisement designed into the armor. "The rampant wyvern crest will be inlaid upon it once the appointment is official and the wedding is over," Master Wade explained. "Gold inlay - such a piece shall not be tainted with common _paint!"_

"I don't get a new sword?" Elilia asked the armorer, with a slight pout to her lips.

"It is not yet complete, I fear," Master Wade said, with a very definite pout to his. "Even with such superior materials, it is difficult to surpass what I did with the greatsword Vigilance. The new blade is almost perfect - but it requires something more. I'm just…not sure what."

Elilia chuckled. "Well, I'm afraid I don't know either. Here - is this of any use to you at all?" She took from her pocket the bright runestone Sandal had given her. "I don't know what it's for; I've never seen this particular set of runes before."

"Oo, let me see…my, but this is fine craftsmanship. I'm not…quite…certain what it is myself, but it is obviously quite a powerful enchantment. The feel of it in my hand is like a very small, contained earth tremor. I will make an examination of it, if I may. Perhaps it _will_ be that one last perfect piece that sets this blade apart from all others."

"Have fun."

"Thank you very much, Master Wade, Madam Mellaris, ser el Sulabar," Anora said. "If you would excuse us, please?"

The clothiers bowed themselves out. Master Wade lingered a bit, eyes fixed avariciously upon his creations, before Anora's seneschal was forced to "assist" him in leaving.

Anora turned to Elilia. "Have you spoken with my father about the Hunt?" she asked.

"I…we didn't get a lot of chance to speak, last night."

Loghain sighed. "Don't tell me the nobles are actually going to waste time with pig-sticking. Not that they're any good for anything else, but still…"

"It's an important tradition, even if I do think it rather an odd way to accomplish the necessary," Anora said. "I want you to participate this year, father."

"I don't have time for tomfoolery, Anora."

"Politicking may fit _your _definition of useless, father, but there is no way to run this country without it. You must reestablish your presence. We need the bannorn on our side. I will not have a repeat of the division we suffered during the Blight. Please, father. I'm counting on you."

Loghain sighed and glanced at Elilia. "What about you? Up for a bit of pig-sticking?"

"I know father rode to the hunt once or twice, but I've never seen it. What does it entail?"

"Riding a horse, carrying a spear, and using it to slay some poor stupid boar the beaters flush out of the bushes."

"Is there something you're leaving out? It sounds not only ridiculously easy but simply…ridiculous."

"Have you ever actually seen a full-grown boar before it has been roasted and had an apple stuffed in its mouth?"

"Can't say that I have, no."

"Let it be said here and now then that there is nothing easy about pig-sticking. Ferelden boars are probably more dangerous than bears, and some of them aren't very much smaller. But it's something that would appeal to the Cousland Barbarian, I should think."

"Well, I'm game."

"Given the number of men who've been killed in the Hunt over the ages, let us hope not."


	41. Chapter 41

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **I finally have the DLCs! Thanks to word from DjinnGenie, who let me in on the fact that _Dragon Age: Origins Ultimate _Edition contains all the additional premium content packs on-disc, I was able to pick up a used copy on Amazon (when it first came out I saw it but thought it was only Origins + Awakening, and I had those)! So I am catching up now to everyone who knew all this canon I didn't. I've played everything so far except Amgarrak and Witch Hunt, which I am saving for when I get through Awakenings with my Loghain/Lighting City Elf build. Don't worry, I am a multi-tasker par excellence, and the only reason this would slow me down is because I'm thinking how to integrate the material into my tale.

* * *

**No Bull From the Big Bull, Volume One, by Varric Tethras, a Humble Storyteller**

**Excerpt: Spider in the Outlaw Camp**

"_AAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEE EEEEEE!"_

_He could hear the triple-exclamation points in the shriek, loud and terrifying enough to bring up every head in the camp, even the ones that made "keeping down" into an art form. Given the very precarious nature of their position here on the edges of the Wilds, far too close to the village of Lothering, the sound instantly triggered a fight-or-flight response in him. The voice was Sister Ailis's, and it came from the little hut they'd built for her. He put down his half-strung bow and grabbed his skinning knife._

_His father barreled up from elsewhere in camp at about the same time he made it to the door of the hut and they burst through together, weapons in hand, and momentarily stuck there like peanuts jammed together in the mouth of a green-glass bottle._

"_Ailis! What's happened?" Gareth shouted. In answer, the Chantry sister pointed a finger that shook with the depth of her terror at the floor beside her narrow cot._

"_Andraste's ass - all this fuss over a bloody _spider?" _Loghain said, and collapsed into the twig-back rocker in an attitude equal parts relief and disdain._

_Gareth, too, seemed torn between irritation and amusement at the Sister's reaction to the creature. It was a large spider, true - a Red-Knee Korcari Crawler, roughly the size of a man's hand, with long, hairy legs and proportionally enormous fangs - but it was not particularly dangerous to humans. The big man stepped forward and raised his enormous boot over it. The spider reared up and raised its front two pair of legs before it threateningly._

"_Gareth, no, stop!" Ailis cried out. He hesitated with his foot in midair and raised a questioning brow at her. "Don't kill it, just…get it out of here."_

_Gareth sighed. Loghain understood that sigh perfectly. "Pup, could you take care of it, please?" Gareth asked. Loghain got up out of the chair and laid his hand down on the dirt floor in front of the creature, palm-up, and gently persuaded the spider to walk onto it. The spider didn't even realize it was held. He picked it up and Ailis cringed away from the sight._

"_Please, be careful, just…get that horrible creature out of here," she pleaded._

_Loghain and the spider preceded Gareth out of the hut, and his father put a hand to his face and shook his head, which said all he wanted to say in the wake of the matter._

"_What a lot of foolishness over so little a thing," Loghain said, and kept the bewildered spider walking from hand to hand as it thought all the while that it was getting somewhere. "Mother was never scared of spiders."_

"_Your mother feared nothing," Gareth said. "A trait I'm sorry to say she passed on to her son. Look, I don't really care what you do with that thing, pup, but whatever you do - do it well away from the camp and Ailis. Don't want her going 'weak sister' on us again, and she's already got our people on edge over this. I'll see if I can't calm things down."_

_Gareth left him then, and Loghain took the spider some little way into the line of trees that marked the start of the Korcari Wilds, a dangerous place of old myths and very real monsters, not that he'd ever seen anything worse than a few snakes and a bear or two. It was said that some of the bears grew to the size of houses, and that ogres stalked the mists in roving hunting bands, but he doubted those tales._

_He took a moment to examine the creature, and brought it up close to his face. Evidently just smart enough to recognize him as a threat even if it did not seem able to grasp the full scope of him, the creature reared up again in its threat display. He wondered if he could be so brave in the face of something so very much greater than himself. But then again, was this courage or stupidity? Was there even a difference?_

_He wondered if he looked half as ugly to the spider as it looked to him. The Maker created all things, according to Sister Ailis and the other Chantry-types, but it was hard to imagine exactly what sort of mindset He was in on the day He created such creatures as this. Suddenly, Loghain didn't particularly feel like touching the disgusting thing anymore. He put the creature down by some leaf litter and watched it scurry for the cover it provided. He wiped his hands off on his leathers and headed back to the camp, glad that spiders didn't come any larger than that._

_Dannon met him near the campfire and held Loghain's restrung bow out to him. "Your father told me to take you hunting with me tonight," the big man said._

_Loghain stared him down. "You mean my father told you to go hunting with _me," _Loghain corrected. "You're useless for anything but cartage, Dannon."_

_Dannon grimaced, but didn't attempt to deny it. The impudent brat was a lot of things, but foremost on the list was _dangerous_. He held out the bow and Loghain took it from him. "I should tell you - I've heard word that Bann Ceorlic's out tonight with a large troop of his men. We'll have to be careful in avoiding them."_

"_We'll steer clear," Loghain said. "Come on. Let's hope luck is with us - the camp would benefit if we managed to bring in something bigger than a quail tonight."_


	42. Chapter 42

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Forty: I Shit You Not**

"I shit you not, this thing was only about _this shy _of being a bleeding High Dragon, and the man just rips into it like a log saw. Didn't hesitate, didn't even blink! And he's not wearing enchanted silverite like the fabled Armor of River Dane, either - just a set of rotting old leathers. I tell you truthfully, Hawke, I thought right then and there that the man knew no fear."

"You sound like you had quite the adventure, Varric," Hawke replied, and called for another ale. "So you and Teyrn _- former _Teyrn - Loghain are…friends?"

Varric shrugged. "I don't know if I'd go so far as to say that, but once you've stood next to him in a scuffle its hard not to respect the man. And for his part, he occasionally deigns to address me as 'Varric' rather than 'Dwarf,' so I guess that means he doesn't entirely resent my existence, which may be about the best he feels towards anyone other than maybe his daughter and the Hero."

"I thought the Hero _was_ his daughter?" Merrill said.

"No, Daisy, the _Queen_ is his daughter."

"Wait…but the Hero was the tall lady whom we were introduced to before he came from the alienage, right? I thought they were sisters, they look so much alike."

Hawke, Isabella, and Varric shared a look between them. "Kitten…Elilia Cousland and Queen Anora don't look anything alike _at all," _Isabella said.

"That's not true," Merrill replied. "They're both blonde. Anyway, the Hero certainly seemed to have a daughterly sort of affection for him. She jumped right up and gave him that big hug right in front of everybody. The _Queen_ didn't."

The trio shared another look. "Oh, Kitten," Isabella said. She shook her head and downed her glass.

"Merrill, I think that Loghain and the Hero are…lovers," Hawke said, as delicately as possible.

"Oh that can't be, ma vhenan. He's so much older than she."

"Daisy…_you're_ sleeping with…another _woman," _Varric pointed out.

"Aye, but we're about the same age."

"Look, it's not important, let's just drop it, okay?" Hawke said. "So you say you respect Loghain, Varric. Fine, I can see that. But tell me, do you _trust _him?"

"In a fight, or just in general?"

"Either-or. Both."

He gave the question due consideration. "Yes."

"You know what he did."

"Yes, Hawke, I do. But much as he seems to want to believe that was all him out there, deserting kings and selling elves to the Tevinters, personally I think it was mostly the blood mages."

Hawke spit out the sip of ale she'd just taken. "W-_what?"_

Varric slapped the tabletop. "Oh ho! That's right, we didn't get around to telling the Court that particular bit of gossip, did we? It seems the Empress and perhaps a Tevinter magister or three may have been using blood magic to 'influence' certain decisions made before and during the Fifth Blight - not just of Loghain, but of a _lot _of Ferelden's high and mighty. Loghain, though, seems to have been the Empress' main prize. The guy we yanked the information out of said she kept a vial of his blood in a golden stand on her vanity table."

"Kinky," Isabella said.

"Dear Maker…the Queen won't be pleased to hear about _this," _Hawke said.

"I suspect she'll shit bricks," Varric said comfortably. "But she doesn't have to worry so much about it. The Hero's friend Seanna has been keeping him safe with the Litany of Adralla, which disrupts a blood mage's efforts at mind control or some shit like that."

"Is that the little redhead that was with her?" Isabella asked. _"She _was cute."

"Birdie has lived a gentle, sheltered sort of life, Rivaini," Varric said. "Don't go corrupting her."

"Oo, speaking of corrupting elves," Isabella said excitedly, "have any of you heard the rumor floating about town? They're saying some elf from the local alienage enlisted in the bloody _army_ last night. Care to place bets on how long it will be before the other recruits beat him to death with socks filled with bars of soap?"

"That seems like a nasty sort of thing to bet on," Merrill said. "Why not take wagers on something more cheerful?"

"Chances are that even if the rumor is true, they're not seriously going to put an elf in the regular army. He'll probably be stuck digging ditches or running errands. And that's if he's lucky," Varric said.

"King Alistair gave Fenris a bloody knighthood just based on Hawke's introduction," Isabella pointed out. "I don't think he's afraid to have an elf in the army. The _elf _ought to be afraid, I think."

"I hate to agree, but I agree," Hawke said. "Even if the man never sees actual combat, the other soldiers are not going to be easy on him, I should expect."

Varric sighed. "Probably true. A toast, to foolhardy idealists - human _and _elven." He downed his mug.

"So what else did you do out in the wilderness for all that time?" Merrill asked after a bit. "I honestly can't picture you sleeping under the stars, Varric."

"Top secret business for the King and Queen I'm afraid, Daisy," Varric said. "I can't tell you the details - not just yet at any rate, not without running the risk of being mashed into a gooey dwarven pulp by rather an angry Loghain, but I can tell you a bit more about the side-adventures we had. How would you like to hear about Harvestmere in Gwaren? It was a hell of a party, I've got to say."

Hawke smiled. "I missed Feast Day when we were living in Kirkwall. Marchers - or at least Kirkwallers - just don't seem to notice it. Even in Lothering Harvestmere was always as big an occasion as we could make of it, the whole village gathering to swap food and stories and drink as much as they possibly could. It doesn't seem to be quite as popular here in Denerim. Must be that city folk don't quite understand the joy of a good harvest."

"Well let me tell you something, _this _city slicker understands now, and next Harvestmere will find me somewhere out in the bannorn - Gwaren if I can manage it, because those folks know how to celebrate, even if some of them have odd ideas about what is and is not food - chowing down and partying with the lumberjacks and fishermen."

"Maybe I'll go with you," Hawke said, with a laugh. "Did you exchange pranks and gifts?"

"Er, no. Is that a tradition here?"

"It was in Lothering. We'd each receive two gifts - the first one was something horrible and funny, the second something that was usually not terribly grand but very special and deeply personal. It was a way of showing each other how much we were understood."

"Oo, I like the sound of a tradition like that. Tell more, ma vhenan," Merrill said.

Hawke laughed. "Well, one year I remember the prank we gave our father was a book written by some Chantry scholar or other that was all about how wonderful and necessary the Circle of Magi was. His gift was a pair of thick woolen socks that Bethany and I knitted for him ourselves, because his feet were always cold. They were terribly mismatched, since we each knitted one, and a bit…_lumpy, _because mother couldn't knit to save her life and Bethany and I basically taught ourselves, but father loved those socks and wore them constantly. He was wearing them the day he died, as a matter of fact."

"Oh, that's sweet."

"I agree. But I don't think I'd ever quite have the stones to give Loghain Mac Tir a _prank, _even if I knew him well enough - although if I did have the stones, I'd give him a toy jumping spider. He'd love that," Varric said, with a smirk.

His three companions all raised questioning brows. "Are you suggesting that the Hero of River Dane, co-slayer of the Archdemon, a man who leaps into battle against mature dragons without compunction...is scared of spiders?" Isabella asked.

"Much as I teased him over it, no, not scared exactly. Skeeved-out would be the better terminology. And in all fairness, he only shows it when they're the size of houses." Varric ordered another mug of ale. "So tell me, Hawke - what were all of _you _doing while out from under my watchful eye? Any great adventures that require chronicling?"

Hawke shrugged. "Just keeping away from the Chantry, mostly. Honestly I'm surprised I didn't decide to come home sooner, but even if the Divine _is _Orlesian there's still a hell of a lot of templars in this country. I figured it wasn't any safer for me here than it was anywhere else."

"I came to Ferelden looking for you, because I got plucked by a Seeker of Truth named Cassandra Penteghast. She wanted to know all about _you. _It seemed like she wanted you to help broker some sort of peace agreement between the mages and templars, but she wasn't exactly gentle in her hospitality, so I thought you needed to be warned."

"Thanks for the heads-up, Varric. Well, I think I'd better get back to the palace and Bethany. Will you come along? I'm sure there's room for you there."

"Thanks, but from the outside at least the Royal Palace doesn't strike me as particularly palatial; more cold and draughty. I'll be here if you need me, Hawke."

She chuckled. "Just like old times, eh? Sure you won't be too busy chasing after the Hero and Loghain to pal around with _me?"_

"You'll always be my best girl, Hawke, you know that. And anyway, I've got a feeling we'll _all_ be chasing after the Hero and Loghain in the coming days."

* * *

Anora quite happily showed them the rest of their new wardrobe - _trousseaus_, Loghain was forced to think of them with a fair degree of sourness, though thankfully if his daughter had caused to have made new smallclothes for him she did not choose to show them. She _did_ display rather a fetching nightgown she'd had made up for Elilia, a confection of sheer and very nearly sheer white silk done up in ruffles and flounces and designed with an eye to concealing just barely enough to tantalize. Frankly he couldn't imagine Elilia ever wearing the thing voluntarily, but the thought of what she'd look like if she _did_ was certainly intriguing.

At the very last Anora brought out the new winter cloaks she'd had made by Pramin el Sulabar, who specialized in furs above and beyond his work with men's tailoring. Elilia's was a lovely hooded cape of silver fox fur, trimmed with sable, that would look well over her Satinalia gown especially. Loghain's was…

"Maker's breath…is that a bloody _lion?" _he asked.

"Just the fur, I'm afraid, and a few claws for fasteners. A gift to you, father, from the King of Nevarra, who is evidently a fan of your work." Anora pulled it down off the dress form. "Try it on: I'm eager to see for myself how it looks on you."

Loghain hated trying on clothes for the benefit of others, whether they be tailors or his daughter. It made him feel like a child, standing before his mother while she critically eyed her latest efforts to keep him clothed. That criticism in her gaze had been reserved solely for the fit of her work on her son's ever-growing frame, but it hadn't felt that way to him at the time, and the way she would laugh and call him her "weed" hadn't helped, no matter how affectionately she said it.

He pulled on the tawny hooded cloak obediently but with a scowl firmly affixed on his face that neither woman took note of. Anora stepped back and eyed the way the garment hung off his shoulders with that same critical eye he remembered from his mother.

"Pull the hood up, father - let me see it." He rolled his eyes expressively but obeyed without comment. The hood was lined with the same tawny fur that made up the rest of the cloak, but on the outside it was covered with the long, dark mane of the beast. Elilia burst out laughing immediately.

"What?" Anora asked, in the same irritated voice Loghain had been about to use. "I think it looks magnificent. I take it you do not agree?"

"Oh, it looks wonderful," Elilia said. "It just struck me that he doesn't really look a whole lot different with the hood up - its just Loghain with bed hair."

Anora chose to ignore the comment, and after a moment's thought so did Loghain. There was nothing he could think of to say in response that he would ever say in front of his daughter.

Before allowing them to escape, Anora presented them with a pair of mabari collars made from the dark blue leather of the Archdemon's hide. Topaz glittered from the middle of the silverite tag that bore Champion's name and tourmaline glittered from Haakon's. "I had them made a bit large, so they've room to grow for a time," she said. "There's plenty of leather leftover when they need bigger collars. In fact, there's still enough bone, hide, and scale to keep a small army outfitted for years to come."

"You've made good use of it so far, Anora," Elilia said. "Our armor is utterly glorious, and I thank you for it."

"I'd have to say that even though the Archdemon was ultimately just a beast, smarter than most perhaps, I feel a bit odd about wearing the skin and bone of a slain foe," Loghain said, "but I will confess it sets an interesting precedent for the Orlesians to ponder."

Anora laughed lightly. "It's not so very different to what you did at the Battle of River Dane, father; stripping the Orlesian commander bare and donning his plate right then and there. At least this suit fits you. As a child I always suspected your near-perpetual scowl was the result of wearing armor designed for a man some inches smaller than you."

"The legend of how I put on the commander's armor 'right then and there,' Anora, is slightly exaggerated," Loghain said. "The man was no less than a _foot_ shorter than me, and I had to have the armor reworked before I could wear it. The enchantments upon it made it difficult for the smith to make adequate adjustments."

"Orlesians are rather a short people, by and large," she said. "I was always rather surprised the armor fit as well as it did."

After a few pleasantries she dismissed them, and on the way back to the living quarters Elilia slipped her arm through his.

"I look forward to seeing you in that beautiful white shirt and Archdemon-hide doublet," she said. "You'll look exceedingly…_romantic_ in it, I think."

He grimaced. "Buttons. I've never worn buttons in my life, fussy stupid things. What's wrong with lacings and buckled straps, I ask you?"

"If you've never worn them, how do you know how fussy they are?"

"_Maric _had garments with buttons on them," he said grimly. "And he needed a manservant just to help him fasten them, and at least three maids to chase the buttons down when they came flying off his clothes."

"Well, _I'll_ help you fasten them," Elilia said, with a chuckle, "and I'll gladly help them come flying off your clothes when I _un_fasten them."

It was his turn to chuckle, a deep rumble that didn't quite rise out of his chest into his throat. _"I'm _looking forward to seeing you in that nightgown."

"That was obviously meant to be saved for the wedding night, Loghain. A flutter of virginal white to inflame the masculine desire to dominate. I shall have to shriek and struggle as you throw me down on the bed to ravage me and rip from me my perfect, unspoiled maidenhead."

"Ha! You've spent too much time around Varric, my dear - you're inventing all sorts of wild fictions. Someone beat me to your perfect, unspoiled maidenhead long before I ever even met you, though I don't begrudge the loss as long as I have the rest of you now. And I can no more see you 'shrieking and struggling' like some helpless little girl before a gang of bandits than I would _want _to see you do."

"I'll shriek and _giggle, _then."

"Now _that _has a certain appeal to it."


	43. Chapter 43

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-One: The Park in the Dark**

Hawke wasn't about to tell anyone of the "special assignment" King Alistair gave her, it was simply too embarrassing. She didn't even take Bethany along. She crept out in the early morning hours before Merrill was awake in hopes of being back before anyone knew where she'd gone or what she'd had to do. She didn't even waken Spirit, asleep on the rug by the foot of the bed.

She was back inside of half an hour, and burst into her sister's bedchamber white-faced and panting. Bethany shot up and clutched the heavy quilt to her chest. "Kireani? By the Maker, what happened to you?"

"I…need healing," Hawke said.

Bethany leapt out of bed, threw her dressing gown on over top of her nightdress, and came to make an examination of her older sister's wounds. "Holy Andraste, you look like you've been in the wars! Tell me what happened?" she asked, as she set to using her healing spells.

Hawke sighed. "King Alistair made a request of me yesterday. He asked if I might take a team of my people and investigate a…'disturbance' in a little memorial promenade park the Crown caused to be built in the place where an old supply depot stood before the darkspawn attack. King Alistair…he's such a joker, I thought certainly he was jesting, that this was some sort of royal 'hazing', but he's the King so it's not like I could tell him to sod off. I was too proud to ask anyone to come with me."

She gulped a deep breath of air. "It wasn't a joke. There are…nasty things living in the park."

"What sort of nasty things?" Bethany asked.

"Pigeons. And squirrels."

Bethany's glowing hands faltered momentarily. "I expect you're about to tell me that they are _giant _pigeons and squirrels, with a taste for human flesh, correct?"

Hawke shook her head. "No, they're normal-sized. But they _do_ have a taste for human flesh."

"So they did this to you, then? Did you manage to get rid of them?"

Hawke shook her head again. "Not a one. They were just too damned fast, I couldn't draw a bead on them. I'm going to have to go back out there, and I'm going to have to take a team," she said, with a look of utter terror on her face caused by the fact she would need to admit this humiliating defeat to others. "I figure magic will be best against the pigeons. Maybe some fast blades can take care of the squirrels. Varric might be able to take down a few. He's a faster aim than I."

"Magic? Kireani…do you really mean to take apostate mages out in the middle of Denerim in _broad daylight?" _Bethany asked. "The King may be well-disposed toward us and the Grand Cleric may be looking the other way, but that doesn't mean the Priests and templars won't be on the lookout."

"The Grand Cleric has most of them out of the city on 'Chantry business,' Bethany, but if it will make you feel safer we'll ask the King for some sort of protection. Maybe he could send someone from his personal guard along, just to make sure nobody bothers you."

"I'm not sure that even Fenris is enough to stop a templar in full charge," Bethany said doubtfully, "but I'm with you if you need me, sister."

"Let's go get Merrill and see who else we can find. Isabella is probably still out at the whorehouse."

"Well, let me get _dressed_ first, please."

"Oh. Right. Yes. But do hurry up."

Bethany donned the lovely crimson robe the Queen had caused to be made for her and grabbed her staff. "All right," she said, as she stepped into her shoes, "I'm ready."

"Let's go, come on."

They left Bethany's rooms and made for the chambers Hawke shared with the Dalish blood mage, Merrill. Before they made it that far, however, their progress was halted by the sight of Loghain, hair mussed and plain rough-weave shirt both untucked and unlaced, exiting the rooms of Elilia Cousland. Embarrassed, the Hawke sisters stopped short.

Loghain nodded to them and grunted something that might have been "Good morning." He seemed thoroughly unconcerned to be seen leaving a lady's bedchambers in the pre-dawn hours. He made to walk past them but when he was close enough to see Hawke's healing wounds in the dim light he stopped and stared. "Maker's breath, woman, what lit into you?"

"Squirrels and pigeons, milord," Bethany said, with a curtsey. "King Alistair asked her to look into the matter of attacks at the memorial park and she didn't take it quite seriously enough."

"Squirrels and pigeons, eh? Well, that's…a new one on me. Are you heading back out to give it another go, then?"

"With magic, this time," Hawke said, through her shamefaced blush. "Little buggers were too fast for me on my own."

"Mind if I tag along? The city always gets me keyed up and restless. Killing something vile will put me in a much better frame of mind, and pigeons are pure vermin even under ordinary circumstances."

The Hawke sisters shared a look. "If anyone could stop a rampaging templar…" Bethany said. "At the very least, he could certainly cow any Chantry stooge that looks to sell us out for unauthorized use of magic."

"I suppose, my lord, if you wish to join us, then you are welcome to," Hawke said, not without some misgivings. "We were a bit afraid that someone might…give us _trouble, _if we were seen using magic publicly."

"Let them try."

"We were on our way to waken my sister's…er…'mage-friend,'" Bethany said, with a blush. "To help us. I'm sure she will need a few minutes to get ready, milord, if you wish to take the opportunity to prepare yourself."

"And then we were going to the Fishwife's Cloister to find Varric and maybe our friend Isabella as well," Hawke added.

"Shouldn't take me as long as that to get ready," he said. "I just need to get my bow and wake up my hound. Meet you at the front gates, then?"

He strode off down the corridor without waiting for a reply, and the sisters exchanged another look. Once he was around the corner and out of earshot, Bethany allowed herself a giggle. "Well…wonder if the Hero of Ferelden is sleeping peacefully?" she said, with a mischievous twinkle in her black eyes.

"She is _now_, I suppose," Hawke said, though she didn't sound particularly jocular herself. "He didn't seem especially concerned for her propriety, did he?"

"Kireani, he walked out of her rooms and was seen doing it. What ought he to have done? Lied? Murdered us both in order to maintain her honor? I thought he handled it rather well, actually."

Hawke sighed and then smiled. "I suppose you're right. Perhaps I'm simply looking for reasons not to trust him."

"Varric seems to trust him, and you heard what he said about the possibility of blood mage mind control."

"I know. It's just…hard to let go of a decade of mistrust, I guess."

She led the way to her door. Merrill proved difficult to rouse, but once she was awake she cottoned onto the situation quickly enough. She dressed and grabbed her staff. "Squirrels are so cute, it's a pity we shall have to kill them. Less so if they're trying to kill us, of course."

"We should get going," Bethany said. "I can't help but think that Lord Loghain is a man who does not like to be kept waiting."

"Oh, is he coming along with us?" Merrill asked. "That's nice. Fresh air is very good for someone of his age, and he does look a bit peaked."

"Merrill, darling…do us all a favor and don't mention to _him _anything about his age or appearance, all right?" Hawke pleaded.

"Oh of course I won't, ma vhenan. It wouldn't be nice for him to be reminded that he's in the twilight of his days, would it?" Merrill gave her belt a twitch to straighten it. "I was very glad King Alistair intervened when that Vaughan character was calling for a duel. You should never fight someone so much older than yourself, it just isn't right or fair."

"Merrill…I don't think His Majesty stepped in to save Lord _Loghain," _Bethany ventured.

"And _I_ don't think Lord Vaughan was calling for a duel," Hawke said. "He's not brave enough. He expected the Crown to save him from the Big Bad Wolf, which is silly, given the fact that he's the Queen's father."

"The Big Bad Wolf? Is this a nickname for Lord Loghain?"

"No, Merrill. The Big Bad Wolf is part of a Ferelden folktale," Bethany said.

"Oo. Can I hear it?"

"While we walk," Hawke said. "Bethany's right, it's not wise to keep Loghain waiting, I should think."

They started out, and Bethany gave Merrill the bare bones of the old tale, which featured three young brothers who lived in the bannorn not far from the Korcari Wilds, who found themselves beset by a particularly hungry, brutal, and intelligent wolf. The youngest brother called to the local Bann for protection, but it never came and so the wolf killed and ate him. The middle brother called to the King, but again aid never came and the brother was killed and eaten. The oldest brother called to no one, but guarded himself well and forged for himself a great blade of steel. When the wolf came for him, he killed and ate it.

"After it ate his two brothers?" Merrill asked, taken aback. "That's…ew."

"The story is an allegory, Merrill," Hawke said. "You look out for yourself, it tells us; never make yourself wholly dependant upon someone else. Our father used to tell us that Fereldens viewed the Wolf in the story as the Orlesian Empire, but I believe it goes back well before the Occupation."

"There's Lord Loghain," Bethany said, and pointed towards the tall figure that lounged by the front gate with a part-grown hound in silhouette by his side. "Probably should stop talking about wolves and Orlesians now."

"Maker's breath, he didn't even bother to lace up his shirt."

"Well, the hairy chest does lessen his resemblance to an elf, now, doesn't it?" Merrill said.

Bethany giggled. "Maybe that's why he left his shirt unlaced - so Merrill doesn't say anything more about him looking 'elfy.'"

"Shh."

Loghain stepped away from the wall he leaned against and nodded to them as they approached. "Ladies."

Merrill nodded back, eyes shining brightly in the early morning light. "Elder," she greeted in a friendly manner. Hawke sighed helplessly. Loghain took no notice of either the appellation or Hawke's dismay at hearing it, and fell into step behind them, looming large and a bit menacing despite his casual stance. In harness on his back was an absolutely enormous longbow and a quiver full of arrows with eagle feather flights, rifled Dalish-style. A very large, wicked-looking hunting knife rode in his belt.

They found Varric seated at what was already become "his table" in the Fishwife's Cloister on the docks. Isabella was with him, and she eyed the narrow strip of Loghain's chest visible beneath the untied lacings of his shirt with lascivious interest. She elbowed Varric.

"Sorry, Varric, but I'm afraid your Paragon of Manliness status has been revoked. That chest is even hairier than yours."

"It is not," Varric said, and he sounded out of sorts as he tugged the lapels of his open-necked tunic. "His hair is just darker, that's all. It draws more…attention."

"It's certainly drawn _mine."_

"I didn't expect to find you awake, Varric," Hawke said. "You've become an early riser since moving to Ferelden?"

Varric chuckled. "Hawke, you should know better. The Rivaini and I haven't even gone to bed yet. Well, I haven't, at least. And Isabella didn't do any sleeping, I assume. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"King Alistair wants me to clean out some pests from the memorial park," Hawke said. "They turned out to be a bit more of a challenge than I was expecting. I could use your help, if you're willing."

"Putting the hurt on some thugs? I'm game. Rivaini?"

"Why not? Isn't much else to do in this town."

"Well…our quarry isn't exactly…thugs," Hawke said.

"They'll see for themselves soon enough," Loghain said.

"True enough, I guess. Just…don't laugh, honestly, because it's no joke. I need you on your toes."

"Oo, color me intrigued. Lead on, Hawke," Varric said, and got up from the table. Isabella followed suit, and together the party left the tavern in the pale light of dawn.


	44. Chapter 44

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **Believe it or not, the initial idea here was just a semi-slapstick side-quest involving killing assassin squirrels (an homage to my other fandom, _Psych_, and the squirrel-hating Carlton Lassiter (essentially Loghain+ Barney Fife) from that series. I added the pigeons when I realized it would make a good tie-in for the eventual acquisition of Shale some chapters from now. I promise, all the weird little quirks in the story (the deliberate ones at least) are all planned to be explained, right up to and including why at the end of DAII Leliana told Cassandra that the Warden was "gone" when in my tale she seems never to have left Ferelden. I should get to that before I get to Honnleath, actually. The…scope…of this story has long since begun to terrify me. I've certainly never attempted anything so complex in fanfic before. Fortunately it's fun as hell. Your comments help keep me on-track, so keep it up!

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Two: Squirrel Assassin**

When they reached the park, the sun had just peeked its head above the walls of the city at last.

"So these things attacked you in the dark," Loghain said. "You're sure they'll still be here while the sun is up?"

Hawke nodded. "King Alistair said that people have reported attacks day and night."

"Tell me; is there anything that _doesn't _want to kill us?" Loghain asked. "I have been attacked by any number of wild animals, but this…let's just call this a first."

"Wild animals?" Varric asked. "Shit on a shingle. What kind is it this time? Wolves? Lynxes? Rabid wildebeest?"

"Pigeons," Loghain replied.

"And squirrels," Merrill supplied helpfully.

"Ah. Well. Ah."

"Oh mighty warriors, we," Isabella said, with a roll of the eyes. "At least the dog should enjoy this 'battle.'"

"I don't see any squirrels or pigeons, Sister," Bethany said. "Are you sure they don't only attack in darkness?"

"They're further in," Hawke said. "Don't worry. They'll find us."

They entered the park. Loghain scowled at the memorial stone honoring "those who perished in the Fifth Blight." He didn't mind there being a memorial, but this one was rather impersonal, somehow. He let his imagination wander momentarily. A great long wall, rising up out of the earth, of black granite polished to a shine so bright the surface would be like unto a mirror, and engraved upon it the names of the lost from every available record. _That _would move people. _That_ would ensure they remembered.

Not that there was any danger of Denerim forgetting what it had suffered in the near future.

"Er…I think we…I mean, I think _they_…found us…" Varric said.

Loghain looked up. In the trees ahead of them, birds perched, regarding them intently. Squirrels, too, clung to the boles and branches and watched them with bright, glittering black eyes. More squirrels came running up from other parts of the park. They were eerily silent as they lined up in what appeared to be military formation before the party. It was not the boldness of well-fed, half-tamed park animals accustomed to being fed by children and old folks, but the feral fearlessness of something wild and deadly.

"_Lovely. _I think they're _hungry," _Loghain said, and drew his bow. "Let's try to stay out of each other's lines of sight, shall we?"

The animals attacked. A pigeon swooped at Champion and she snapped it up in her lighting-fast jaws. Isabella managed to strike down two leaping squirrels before a third managed to bite her on the arm. Bianca began to sing her strange song - _"RattlerattlerattlePOOMfwwpp!"_ Pigeons dropped out of the sky like hailstones, frozen solid by blasts of ice from the staves of Merrill and Bethany. Many more birds and squirrels fell with crossbow bolts or elf-flight arrows through their bodies. Hawke tried her best to keep up, but though she was a skilled archer she was not particularly a swift one, and she was stunned at the speed with which Loghain's bow was nocked, loosed, and nocked again. _Big_ was certainly the proper adjective to describe him, _lumbering_ was not.

"I told you time and time again, Hawke," Varric said, even as he continued to pwing away at squirrels and pigeons. "Speed, not power. You're shooting _pigeons, _not dragons: loosen your stance, girl!"

She tried, but the unfamiliar body language made her awkward and her aim suffered badly. A few shots even went wild. She hoped that none of her arrows struck anyone.

Near the end of the fight, when the creatures' numbers were failing and the mages' mana was running out, a pigeon swooped at Merrill's face. Too exhausted to strike it down herself, she shrieked and ducked, but the bird only corrected course. Just before it would have struck her it fell to the ground as if struck by a bolt of lightning, impaled through the body upon Loghain's hunting knife. Shocked, Merrill glanced over at him, nearly ten feet away from her. He cocked a questioning brow at her. "You all right?" he asked. Numbly, she could only nod. "Good," he said, and took up his bow again.

The last mad, blighted, or possessed creature fell not long after that, and silence again reigned in the little promenade park. Champion grabbed up one of the pigeons she'd killed and chewed it, enjoying the crunchy quills in her teeth. "Leave it, Champion," Loghain commanded. "We don't know what made them act so."

"Ancestors' asses, those birds were crazy!" Varric said. "And the squirrels were totally berserk!"

"Well, you'd be angry, too, if you had to carry your nuts in _your_ mouth," Loghain said. Varric stared at him for a good long moment before he realized it was in the nature of a quip. He laughed, but not with much strength.

Loghain stepped up to Hawke. "This is yours, I believe," he said, and raised his arm. Sticking into the meat at the back of his triceps was an arrow, thankfully not deeply embedded.

"Ow. Uh…sorry," Hawke said, as she flinched. He waited patiently, arm up, so she took the hint and, with a wince, yanked the arrow out. Loghain turned his attention nonchalantly to the retrieval of his hunting knife and as many arrows as could be recovered.

Merrill investigated one of the slain squirrels. "There are demons in the blood," she said after a time. "Weak, perhaps not even whole. The Veil must be thin here."

"There's been a lot of death and blood in Denerim, particularly in recent years," Loghain said. "I'm hardly surprised."

He turned then, and his eyes _did_ widen in surprise. He even recoiled. _"Maker's breath," _he said.

They all looked, and brought their weapons to the ready. All they saw was a young, blond elf, standing quietly by the memorial stone, smiling from ear to pointy ear. _"Chatterly," _Loghain said through clenched teeth.

The elf immediately broke into rapid-fire Orlesian. What he was saying was difficult to follow, even for those in his hearing who understood the language well enough, but his wildly gesticulating hands and broad grin seemed to indicate that he was attempting to relate his impressions of the great Battle of the Assassin Squirrels.

"Come on," Loghain said, in a tone of weary resignation. "I need a drink."

He led them back to the tavern and ordered up a round. Chatterly refused to sit or to drink, and merely stood close by the table, smiling. He could keep quiet, it seemed, as energetically as he could speak, and gave the eerie impression of absorbing everything that was said.

"Keep a close watch on your tongues," Loghain cautioned the others, voice pitched so as not to carry far. "The lad hasn't assayed a word of Common, but I believe he can _understand _it."

"Oo, you think he's a Bard?" Isabella asked, eyes alight with sudden interest.

"I think if he was sent here to spy, they picked a damned dangerous way to introduce him into the country," Loghain said. "He was a catalyst, a sick elf to spread disease amongst our laborers. But people tend to get incautious when they think someone can't understand what they're saying. Believe me, I know that from personal experience, and most of the embassies in this city have suffered for that kind of indiscretion."

"What do you mean?" Varric asked. Loghain grinned wolfishly.

"I mean that, given how most of Thedas so looks down upon Ferelden as a backwards, barbarian land, it seems very difficult for them to believe even after many evidences that anyone who so epitomizes that very backwards barbarism could possibly understand them when they speak their native tongues."

"You speak more than just the King's Tongue?" Hawke asked.

"No."

"But you just said - "

"I _speak _only one language, but I understand quite a few of them, well enough to get by at least. Never could quite work my tongue around them, though." He reflected upon that for a moment. "Or maybe it's simply a matter of not really caring to."

Isabella chuckled. "So, play up the ambassadors perceptions of the 'stupid Dog Lord' and listen in on all their private conversations, eh? Loghain Mac Tir - you're a _fox."_

"I am hardly to blame for their ridiculous bigoted preconceptions of Ferelden," he said simply. "An ambassador ought to be wiser."

After several rounds, they were joined by a rather sleepy-looking Laz, who sat down, ordered a drink, and asked what they were all doing up so early. No one particularly wanted to cop to killing possessed squirrels and pigeons.

"Oh, just drinking and jawing. Nothing exciting," Varric said.

* * *

**A/N: **The scene where they first encounter the merry little parkland creatures is pretty much stolen from a favorite _Far Side _cartoon, which may actually be too much "before the time" of some of you whippersnappers (the ones that ARE whippersnappers; _Dragon Age _seems to have a higher-than-usual fan base of people round abouts of my age, or at least that's mostly who I've encountered). Depicted: a man in safari gear standing in the middle of a forest, facing down a line of wide-eyed, grinning squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, raccoons, and the like. Caption: "As usual the forest was full of happy little creatures…but this time, something seemed awry." The suggestion that they're using battle formations comes again from _Psych, _when Lassiter says of the wild marmosets that have attacked him and his partner, "Lower Primate my ass: I recognize a military formation when I see one.") And obviously Loghain's concept of the Fifth Blight Memorial Wall is neither more nor less than the Vietnam Memorial.


	45. Chapter 45

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** Should've had more than this after all weekend, but as sometimes happens, life got suddenly and inexplicably hectic. I think I've restored the usual bland doldrums that facilitate writing.

* * *

**No Bull From the Big Bull, Volume One, by Varric Tethras, a Humble Storyteller**

**Excerpt: Bedtime Stories**

_Ruling wasn't pleasant or at all easy, even ruling only part of a nation. But if you asked Loghain Mac Tir, new by only a handful of years to the trials and tribulations of high nobility, which was the worst of them, he would have answered without hesitation: Servants. Servants to light the fireplaces, servants to wash the floors, servants to shine his bloody armor and servants to lace his sodding boots. He tripped over servants whenever he took a step, or slammed into them if he should stop or turn too quickly. Servants had become the bane of his existence._

_He had a manservant now, a _valet, _though he couldn't bear to use that word at all. What a dreadful word, "manservant," and what a ridiculously Orlesian concept. He was quite capable of dressing himself. What pitiably inept creatures nobles were expected to be. Did they actually like such attentions? He himself spent much of his time devising ways to get the servants out from underfoot. He was becoming very adept at it._

_Some of them weren't so bad. They were just poor people, elves mostly, doing their jobs, even if those jobs were ones he would have preferred to do for himself. It was the zealots he couldn't bear, the ones who revered the legend he was surprised and more than a bit dismayed to discover he had become. They were faithful idolaters of a man who did not exist, and he had no way of making them see that he was no more than human._

_One among their number particularly irritated him, a young man - scarcely more than a lad, actually - named Imrek. Imrek was technically his squire, although there was slim chance in hell that he would ever become a knight, he simply didn't have the ability or the discipline necessary; he was a sop to those who found it improper for a male knight to have a young female squire. Imrek helped him strap on his armor; Cauthrien was his protégé with all other duties. But whatever the reasons Loghain was saddled with him, the boy was constantly underfoot, a perpetual irritant. If it ended at simple adoration it would have been bad enough, but the lad _swaggered, _acted as if being nominal squire to the Hero of River Dane bestowed some especial honor and status on his head that made him better than other mere mortals, even those who were in fact far above him both in official rank and personal value._

_Loghain had devised a delightful way to rid himself of Imrek; send him to Orzammar with a message for the dwarven King. That message would be something along the lines of, "Please take this young fool and do something with him. I don't care what. He would make an excellent footstool, perhaps." His hand was stayed only because Imrek was simply too young to send off on a cross-country trip like that…and the dwarves had done nothing to deserve being inflicted with him. The Orlesians, perhaps, but then, he would not be seen to give _those_ bastards so much as a dirty sock with a sodding hole in the heel. But it was pleasant to dream._

_So a great deal of energy was wasted, daily, in avoiding or misdirecting servants. Sometimes he just had to get the hell away from them, for the sake of his own sanity, and on those occasions he would go hunting. There _were_ servants who would also prefer to do this for him, in fact he had his own head huntsman, but it was at least something he did not need to invent an excuse to do for himself. But nowadays it was harder than ever to make it out the door for a day _alone._ It was easy enough to get past the huntsman - a simple command was usually sufficient. But how exactly did one give the slip to a six year old girl?_

_Celia was no help at all. She thought it was a "good idea" for he and the girl to spend time together, just the two of them. Maybe she was even right, but, well…_

_Even though he was still a young man, with many enemies yet to face in life, nothing he had ever encountered, or would _ever_ encounter, frightened him as much as that one creature. Less than three and a half feet tall, with huge blue eyes and long blonde pigtails. His daughter._

_So he often had to take her with him when he went out, but even though he worried that he might be a bad influence he had to admit he enjoyed the company. She was quiet, not a chatterbox like most children. Serious. Thoughtful. She paid attention to what he said and followed direction well. And, since he didn't know what else to do with her out there in the woods and his own mother had begun to teach him those things when he was about her age, he taught her what he knew of arrow craft and woodlore. He helped her make her first small shortbow, taught her how to set snares, taught her how to read tracks. She was a quick study._

_The first time she killed a rabbit with her bow he saw the way her eyes grew wide and solemn and slightly tearful. She never cried, not ever, and it was a bit of a surprise to him to discover she could feel badly about ending the life of a small, furry creature the same as any other little girl. He had gotten used to thinking of her as something else, something…he didn't know what. Not better, exactly, but harder. He wasn't displeased to note that there was sympathy in her heart, but nothing about her was more terrifying to him than the possibility of tears so he did his best to alleviate the situation. Thinking quickly, he taught her to say a little prayer of thanksgiving for the meat and fur, and a prayer that the spirit of the rabbit would reach the Maker's side. He had no way of knowing it, but the words he felt so silly teaching his daughter were very close to the words of the Dalish ritual his mother had very nearly taught him by mistake so long ago when she first taught him to skin his kill. In any event, the words worked to forestall his daughter's tears, and the warm rabbit fur muff her mother made for her out of the tanned hide kept her in smiles all winter long. A fair trade for the life of one rabbit, he thought. He kept her to target shooting after that, though. At least until she was older._

_He just didn't want to damage her, that was the crux of it. She didn't have quite the same advantages he'd had growing up - her mother was everything a child could ask for, but as a father he felt he left a lot to be desired. He spent a great deal of time away from home even before he went to Denerim to aid Maric's failing rule in the days after Queen Rowan's death, chasing down rumored assassins and bandit gangs, keeping peace in the teyrnir, and that was the best thing he thought he could do for his child. Keep her safe, and keep her away from the worst that was in him. He didn't want her walking in his footsteps._

_She went with him, one day that winter, to check on snares he'd set. She followed along behind him, quiet and stoic, with no complaint about the cold or the deep snow. The traveling was easy for her when the snow was light enough for Loghain to plough through it; she could walk easily in the track he made. But when the drifts were deep and heavy enough that he was forced to step through, that made her passage difficult. Her legs were short, his stride was long, and she foundered behind in increasing but silent frustration, cold and growing wet. He noticed, picked her up by the collar of her thick winter coat, and hoisted her into his arms._

_She snuggled into his shoulder with a satisfied sigh. "Getting tired?" he asked._

"_A little bit, maybe," she said. "Just a little."_

"_We should be getting home, then," he said. "There's probably a hot meal already waiting for us."_

"_Okay, Daddy."_

_Daddy. That was a term he'd never heard before coming to live in Gwaren - in other parts of Ferelden the term was Da' or Papa or even Dad. Probably any of those would have worked just the same, but the appellation had the effect of a fire bomb on his heart every time she used it instead of the formal "father." It was a reminder of exactly how much responsibility rested upon his shoulders as a primary guardian and teacher of this tiny unformed life, and just how much that really meant to him. Celia had been pregnant four times now: Anora looked more and more like an only child. Just one chance to get it right. He cuddled her closer and carried her back home to the Keep to dry off and warm up._

_Late that night, long after everyone else, including most of the damned servants, went to bed, he was up and wandering the halls. He usually did, because it wasn't just the city that made him keyed up and restless - he was simply pre-keyed, as it were. He stopped into Anora's bedroom just to reassure himself that she was still breathing, something he did fairly often. His night vision was not the same as an elf's but it was keen for a human, so he did not require lights as he made his patrol._

_There was enough moonlight filtering in through Anora's window that he could see her eyes were open. She caught his shadow moving against the darkness and gasped slightly. "It's all right, little one," he said quietly. "It's just me. Sorry I woke you."_

"_Oh. It's okay, Daddy - I was awake already."_

_He stepped into the room. "Is something the matter?"_

_She shrugged her little shoulders. "I'm just not sleepy. Would you tell me a story, Daddy?"_

"_I…I'm afraid I don't know any stories, little one."_

"_Everybody knows stories, Daddy," she said, with calm assurance._

"_Oh really? Then perhaps you ought to tell _me_ one."_

_She looked at him consideringly for a moment, then climbed out from under the sleeping furs and held out her arms to him. "All right. Sit down with me and I'll tell you a story, Daddy."_

_He picked her up and sat down on the edge of the bed with her on his lap. She sat there for a moment lost in thought, then began with the time-honored "Once upon a time…"_


	46. Chapter 46

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Three: Bedtime Story**

Snowfall in the city was very different from the snow that fell over Lake Calenhad. Around the Circle Tower, the constant heavy winds whipped even light flurries into something cruel and frightening, but here, protected by the high city walls and great buildings, the goose feather flakes fell softly. Seanna was enchanted.

For the last two weeks she had enjoyed a freedom she'd never known. She had her own suite of rooms in the palace just a few doors down from Elilia, new clothes provided for her by the Crown, and coin in her purse with no one to tell her how she ought to spend it. Best of all, Elilia had destroyed her phylactery. As long as she met no templar who knew her personally, and was careful to conceal her magic, she had free run of the city. And the honorary title of Royal Attaché to afford her some degree of respect and cooperation from guardsmen and shopkeepers. She decided that today she was going to take full advantage of it. She was going out into the city, and she was going out on her _own._

She threw her fine new winter cloak - woolen, but excellent quality and lined with real fur - on over her crimson dress robes. She met Elilia in the hall, coming out of her own rooms dressed for the day indoors in one of the fine linen shirts and leather vests the Queen had provided for her. She looked as boyish as ever, but very pretty in Seanna's opinion.

"Hello, Little Bird," Elilia greeted. "My, you look festive. Where are you off to?"

Seanna gestured toward the nearby window. "Its snowing."

Elilia laughed. "Yes, it is, but if you were hoping to get in a snowball fight or make snow spirits I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. It's too warm for this to stick."

"Oh, I don't mind. Its just…I looked outside, I saw the snow falling so prettily, and every face I saw had a smile on it. Smiles! Fereldens don't just _smile_. I want to go out and enjoy this."

"All by yourself?" Elilia asked. "I'd offer to go with you, but my brother is supposed to be arriving today and I want to be here when he shows."

"All by myself. I've never been out - _anywhere_ - on my own before. It'll be an adventure!"

Elilia laughed. "All right. Have fun, but don't get _too _adventurous. Parts of Denerim _I_ wouldn't go to alone."

"Oh, don't worry. I expect I haven't the courage to wander far. The Palace District, and maybe the High Market Commons; that's enough for me." She went to the window and looked out. "Everyone just seems so _happy, _and Denerim hasn't exactly been a happy place lately. Is it always like this when it snows?"

"I take it you don't know the old adage."

"What old adage?"

"'Orlesians don't fight cold.' Even during the worst of the Rebellion, unless Maric's army forced them into it, the Orlesians wouldn't fight after the first snowfall, and that was with mostly Ferelden foot soldiers. Just refused to face it. They don't have our weather, you know, and I guess they can't deal with real cold. I traveled with an Orlesian during the Blight, and believe me, wintering rough with her was an experience in itself. I daresay that this little flurry wouldn't be enough to stop the chevaliers, but it foretells the onset of real winter. People feel…safe, now. The threat is abated, temporarily at least. The Empress won't risk her ships to the ice and storms, the mountain passes will snow in, and we'll still have to be on our guard but most likely we won't have to worry about any real possibility of further invasion attempts until spring thaw."

"Is that why the King and Queen have gone ahead with so many plans for the holidays?" Seanna asked. "I confess I did wonder about the advisability of having feasts and festivals with an Orlesian sword dangling over our heads."

"They're trying to maintain morale," Elilia said. "Loghain would rather everyone just knuckle down and spend those monies on more practical purposes of national defense, and certainly he has a point, but the Queen does, too - feasts and festivals help people remember what they have to fight for."

"Spirit is important."

"Right."

"Well, I'll see you later tonight, I suppose, Elilia. I hope your brother arrives safely and you have a happy reunion," Seanna said.

Elilia chuckled. "We will, right up until he finds out that he was invited to the city early so that the Queen can spring the news of my impending nuptials upon him. He _doesn't approve _of the idea of me and Loghain together."

"Could he stand in your way?" Seanna asked, concerned.

"He could try, but though my brother is a courageous man, I don't think he quite has the stones to stand against Queen Anora, Loghain, _and me _all together. He'll just be very upset. Have a good day, dear heart."

* * *

Queen Anora entered her sitting room to find it oddly chilled. She glanced at the fireplace and found it blazing properly, so she cast her eyes to the doors that led out to the balcony and found them standing wide open. Her father leaned upon the parapet, one boot kicked out and crossed over the other at the ankle, watching the snow fall silently over the city. Great flakes landed in his hair and stuck there momentarily before melting away. He was not wearing his cloak.

"Father, come in before you make yourself sick," she said crossly. "And do close the doors."

"In a moment, my dear," he said quietly. He stood up and turned to her, crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall heedless of the fact that it was far too low for a man his height to do so safely. He jerked his chin in the general direction of the falling snow. "First snowfall, people are meandering about town looking like they've gotten their Satinalia presents early. It may be a false sense of security, but it's borne out by history. Even _I _feel relieved."

Anora's scowl softened. "I know what you mean. It would be pleasant to believe that we have several months' respite from worry, several months in which to complete our preparations for the worst case scenario."

"We probably do. _I'm_ not going to relax - I never do. But it would be a good idea if His Majesty managed to do so. Poor lad has been using himself rather too freely of late, I think."

"I agree. Is that why you're here in my rooms, father? Concern for your son-in-law's health?"

He grimaced. "If only."

He came into the room and closed the balcony doors carefully behind him. He stood before them in an attitude of indecision that worried his daughter greatly. She'd seen her father in a lot of moods, she'd even been just the slightest bit genuinely afraid of him during the last dark days before the Warden faced him at the Landsmeet years ago, but she had _never_ seen him indecisive. It worried her at least as much as the strange deep brooding melancholy that had gripped him during the Blight.

"I…have some things to tell you, and I don't really know how," he said.

Anora swallowed her worries and gestured to the low couch. "Sit with me. I'm listening."

They sat together, Anora primly, with her skirts smooth and her back straight, and Loghain leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his big hands dangling. He sat with his head lowered and a look of consternation on his face for a moment before he smiled and chuckled. "I don't know if you remember that far back, but when you were just a little slip of a girl - " he held one hand out before him, indicating a height about three feet off the ground - "I caught you wakeful late one night and you demanded of me a story."

Anora smiled slightly. "I remember. I remember you turned my demand around on me, and made me tell _you_ a story instead."

He laughed. "You should have been a bard. That story has stuck with me through all these years. In the half hour or so it took for you to fall asleep on my lap you slew more dragons and rode more unicorns than any fairy tale princess in history, not that that ilk spends a lot of time slaying dragons typically."

"As I recall my story's 'heroine unknown' _rode _a few dragons, too," Anora said. "And I also seem to recall that she did so always with her father by her side."

"She did at that. He was quite the legendary figure, as I recall. Never could live up to him."

"All little girls, I think, see their fathers as the biggest, strongest, best men in all the world," she said. "Some learn otherwise all too quickly, others don't find out differently for a long while. I never was completely disillusioned on that score, father, and at risk of sounding immodest I do _not_ believe it is because I am stupid or but poorly attuned to reality."

He shook his head. "You are neither, dear, but still you hold an altogether idealized view of me that simply isn't truthful. But that's as may be. I remember that for all the hard work she did your 'heroine unknown' was rewarded with not gold or jewels but _chocolates._ That surprised me, I'll confess. I hadn't known you'd ever encountered chocolate before then."

"Blame King Maric. You weren't at home for my Name Day celebration that year - " she carefully avoided mentioning just how seldom he _was_ home for her Name Day celebrations - "so you didn't know that His Majesty sent me a gift box of Orlesian chocolates. They were shaped like seashells, and very realistic with their mottled colors of white, milk, and dark chocolate. Filled with praline cream. They were almost too pretty to eat - _almost_. Mother let me have one each week, after services at the Chantry. I became quite the model little Andrastian while that box of chocolates held out. Mother made me promise not to tell you about them. You wouldn't have minded that I had sweeties, she said, but you might be angry with the King because they were _Orlesian."_

"Ha! I probably would have been," he said, a bit shamefacedly. "Anyway, I guess that when I told you, back then, that I didn't know any stories, I wasn't being entirely honest. I do know _one_, although it certainly isn't anything for a six year old girl to hear at bedtime. I could tell you parts of it now, though…but I warn you, much of it is fairly ugly. And a lot of it you won't like."

"What story is this, father?"

"_My _story. And yours. The truth behind all the lies and legends."

"That is…a story I have longed to hear my entire life."

He sighed. "It's a damned hard story to tell. But you have a right to it, and maybe it is even something you need to know about." He turned his face to look her in the eye. "Just know that no matter what you think about what you hear, none of it changes _you."_

"I'm not so certain of that myself, father," Anora said. "History has influence. It might change me quite a little."

"If you take some sort of lesson from it, that's one thing," he said. "But there are things you don't know that are probably going to shock you, maybe make you question yourself. I don't want that."

"Sometimes it's good to question."

He sighed, then put an arm around her shoulders and drew her in close. "Very true, my dear. But I ask your forgiveness in advance: for telling you this story, and for not having told you it before. Now…now I just have to figure out how to begin it."

"Begin at the beginning, work your way through the middle, and when you come to the end, stop," Anora said, lightly despite the strange apprehensive flutter in her stomach.

"Sage advice. I shall attempt to follow it." He kissed the top of her head, then smiled. "'Once upon a time…'"


	47. Chapter 47

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Four: Seanna's Big Adventure**

Seanna made it as far as the royal stables before the progress of her adventure was briefly arrested by the sight of the stablemaster working a beautiful chestnut horse of immense size. The proud creature arched its fine neck and shook its black mane in the falling snow, and she stopped at the edge of the training paddock to watch. She used to look at picture books in the Tower as a little girl, pictures of Ferelden Cob and Antivab Barb and Orlesian Walkers, and dream of one day seeing the beautiful creatures in life rather than colored plates and black and white sketches. But she wasn't sure she'd ever seen a drawing of a horse similar to this. It stood taller at the withers than the total height of the stable master, with long, thickly muscled legs and enormous hooves covered in long white hair that grew on the horse's legs from the knee down. A vague memory stirred.

"Maker's breath, that's an Avaari!" she burst out, then clapped a hand over her mouth as the stablemaster turned to look at her.

"Oh, hello, Miss," he said. "Yes, you're right - Gladiator here _is_ an Avaari. You're familiar with the breed?"

"Only from books," she said, weakly. "I thought they were extinct."

The stablemaster laughed. "Not quite, though they are awfully rare these days. Once, before we southern barbarians even had war dogs, our ancestors' armored knights terrified their enemies by charging into battle on the backs of steeds just like Gladiator here. But the Tevinters didn't like the Avaari's size, so while they had us in their grasp they bred it down. The Ferelden Cob is one of the results of that, like Georgie-Boy over there," he nodded toward a groom currying a short-legged, stout-bodied horse in the shelter of the stable awning. "The Orlesians did their best to put paid to what was left of the original stock. Scared of heights, I think. But the Queen favors the Avaari, and she's invested in several breeders of the pure strain. Gladiator here is intended as a wedding gift for her Lord father, and I've got to make sure he's well trained before then. _This _horse won't go swayback on him, no matter how heavy his armor, and he'll look grand up there, a proper big Ferelden man on a proper big Ferelden horse. She's even had that fey armor smith, Master Wade, make armor for Gladiator to match the stuff she had him make her father. Beautiful work, that. Strange material, though - looks like dragonbone, but it isn't red like that usually comes out the forge. 'Tis _blue. _Deep, dark blue."

Seanna knew the secret origins of the blue dragonbone, but she merely said, "It sounds a grand sight indeed. What are you teaching him out here today?"

"Nothing, as it turns out. I wanted to see if he'd been outside in snowfall before - wedding is on First Day, you know, so the weather is apt to be a bit sloppy at least, though I hope it's fine - but it looks like the big bugger even likes it. He's been trying to eat it as it falls."

Seanna laughed. "Perhaps he thinks it is a sugar snow."

The stablemaster chuckled in response. "Maybe he does at that." He patted the horse affectionately high up on his muscular neck, and gave Seanna a sidelong glance. "I remember you, don't I? You were here with the Lord and Lady when my Mirani's pups imprinted to them."

"Yes, that was me. You have a good memory, Ser."

He chuckled again. "I'm not likely to forget a moment of the day two of my girl's pups went to two of the greatest heroes in Ferelden history. If I may say it, Miss, you look a sight better now than you did then. You seemed a bit…shy and retiring, like. Didn't want to creep out of the shadows and be noticed."

"That…sounds like me," she said. "I guess having good friends changes things for people, doesn't it?"

He nodded. "It does at that. You like horses? If you'd like a tour of the stables I could have one of the lads show you around. I've got to stay with this brute here."

"I…" she started to demur, but stopped herself mid-thought. "I think I'd like that, Ser, if its not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all. There's a new recruit the army has put to work here, I'm sure he'd be happy to stop shoveling shi - begging your pardon, Miss - to put down his shovel and give a lady the grand tour."

"An army recruit? Why would he be stationed to the royal stables?"

"Well, Miss, I oversee the army stables as well as the King's, so there's that, and I kind of like to keep the lad close so's I can kind of watch out for him, because…well…I guess you'll see for yourself. _Oy, Lightning!"_

A moment later, a young man in rusty splintmail old enough to qualify as antique stepped out of the shadows of the stable, and he was indeed carrying a scoop shovel. Seanna was startled to realize that he was an elf. "Yes, Ser?"

"Lay aside your weapon, lad. This young lady is a friend of the Lady Cousland, and she'd like to meet some of the King's nags. Whyn't you introduce her around?"

The young elf saluted. "Yes, Ser." He leaned his shovel against the stable wall. "Right this way, Ma'am," he said, and stepped aside to allow Seanna to enter the stable.

"So, what would you like to see? His Majesty has a bit of everything here; chargers, racers, saddlebreds…what's your interest?"

"At the moment, you. You're obviously the alienage elf that I'd heard enlisted in the army. What made you sign up?"

He chuckled and scratched the back of his head. "More and more, I'm beginning to think it was arrogance," he said. "I hope I had better motives than that. I signed up the same night that Lord Loghain saved us all from the Bloody Lung. I thought it was something I could do to help my country and my people both."

"It sounds very noble. Has it been difficult?"

"Not any more so than any other job I've worked. They haven't even started training me, just issued me a shovel and set me to work cleaning the stables. I try and tell myself that all recruits start this way…"

"Recruitment is up, I'm told, but I don't see any other young soldiers mucking stables."

"Not as their sole duty, at least," he said. "I'll work faithfully, whether they use me as a soldier or not. I just hope some day they'll give me a chance to prove myself."

They talked awhile longer and he showed her the horses. They were beautiful animals, but her interest was piqued more by the handsome young man. She was quite a bit older than he, she thought - he could not have been more than twenty-five - but the way his friendly black eyes appreciated her delicate features and the plunging neckline of her robes she thought he didn't much mind.

After some time had passed, Seanna reluctantly said her goodbyes. "I should let you get back to your duties."

"It was wonderful to meet you, Seanna," he said. "I hope perhaps you'll visit me again sometime. I…suspect this is where you'll find me."

She smiled. "I think I'd like that, Private Lightning."

He started to walk away, then hesitated and came back. "I know we just met, and this isn't exactly very good manners of me to ask, but I wonder if you could perhaps do a favor for me? If it's not too far out of your way, that is."

"You can certainly ask."

"The paymaster has given me partial wages for the last month, to cover the two weeks I've been with the army. Recruits are given liberty every other week's end, but, well…I haven't received a furlough myself, yet. I worry about my family in the alienage, with no money to sustain them, and I worry about keeping the money with me here. I wonder if you could take it to our Hahren, Valendrian, for me? He would ensure that it went to my family. His home is just across from the vhenadal, you can't miss it."

"I would do that for you gladly, but would you trust me with your money after having known me for such a short time?"

He shrugged and smiled. "I know it is perhaps unwise of me to trust incautiously, but I've also been told that it is best to go with your instincts, and my instincts tell me you wouldn't cheat a fellow elf."

"I hope I wouldn't cheat anyone. But I thank you for your trust."

"And I thank you, Seanna, for this kind service. Hopefully someday I can return the favor." He reached into his belt pouch and gave her a small coin purse. It wasn't very full, but even a few silvers was a fortune to an alienage elf, Seanna had heard.

She tipped a brief curtsey and left the stables, headed directly for the alienage in the low market commons. That was a bit more adventure than she had prepared herself for, and the alienage was certainly one of those places where even a strong woman might think twice about going alone, but it was broad daylight, and she was an elf…and if worse came to worst, she had magic at her command, even if she had left her staff in her rooms.

There were a few gimlet stares for the elf in fine clothing as she entered this poorest enclave of Denerim's poor, but no one bothered her. She found the Hahren's brave little house easily enough.

A white-haired old man answered her tentative knock. "Yes? May I help you?"

"Hahren Valdenrian? Private Lightning Tabris asked me to bring you his army wages, to give to his family."

"Lightning? He's calling himself Lightning? Oh, where are my manners? Won't you come in?"

She didn't want to stay, but she didn't particularly care to stand in the street either. "Thank you."

"You are a friend of…'Lightning's'?" Valendrian enquired once the door was closed behind her.

"We only just met, actually, but he was worried and decided to trust me with the delivery. I take it that Lightning is not his real name?"

"No, but I think I understand why he has changed it. His real name would likely cause great offense to his fellow soldiers, considering he is an elf. Tell me, does he seem happy with the choice he has made?"

"He seems determined, I think. He understands that it is a difficult task he's set for himself, but he wants to help in any way he can. I believe he will be an excellent example for the elven people to follow."

Valendrian's tired face registered relief. "I am glad to hear that. I was surprised and not just a bit dismayed when I discovered he had left the alienage to enlist."

A redheaded woman burst in through the front door. "Hahren, I - oh. I'm sorry. I didn't realize you had company."

"Shianni, this is…I'm sorry, I'm afraid I didn't ask your name."

"Seanna. Seanna Surana."

Both elves gawped at her. "Seanna…Surana? Little Seanna? But you were taken…to the Circle…" Valendrian said.

"I…yes, I am a mage," Seanna said, with a blush. "I would prefer that wasn't bandied about, however, if at all possible. You…know of me?"

"My dear…you were born here," Valendrian said.

"Your parents were my next-door neighbors," red-headed Shianni. "I grew up playing with your brother and sisters."

"I…have family? Here?"

The alienage elves shared a look. "Not…any longer, I'm afraid, child," Valendrian said heavily. "The Tevinters…"

"Oh. I understand." Seanna swallowed hard. So, Loghain had ripped away her last chance to connect with her family. Or the blood mages who were messing with his mind, either one. "There's no need to speak of it. Please."

"Thank you, child. Shianni, you needed something of me?"

"Oh. Right. Well, its that bastard Kern again, only worse this time. He broke into the stockroom where you're keeping the extra food the Crown sent to support us. He's hoarding again."

"Blast. Seanna, I'm afraid I must deal with this. If it isn't too much trouble, perhaps you could deliver Lightning's wages to his family yourself? I can point their house out to you."

"Thank you, Hahren, I would be happy to do it."

They left his little house and he pointed her up the street to a corner building a little nicer than most of the others, meaning the roof was almost intact. "That is the Tabris residence. You'll find Nesiara inside."

"Thank you, Hahren."

Seanna walked up the street to the little house and knocked on the door. A young woman with long blonde hair answered, very pretty, and also very clearly not related to Lightning in any perceptible way. "May I help you?" she asked uncertainly.

"Hello. My name is Seanna Surana. Private Lightning Tabris asked me to bring his wages to his family…?"

"Lightning? You mean Loghain? Oh, wonderful! I was beginning to worry about him. Tell me, is he well?"

"His…name is Loghain? Now I understand why he didn't give the army recruiters his real name. Anyway, he looked quite well and happy to be doing something to help Ferelden, and eager to do more. Here - this is his pay for his two weeks' service."

"Oh, good. Adaia needs new mittens for the winter, and I was afraid there would be no money to buy the wool to knit them."

"Adaia is…?"

"Our daughter. She's with one of the elders, being taught her letters, or I'd introduce you."

Their daughter. Hers and Lightning's. Seanna ought to have guessed - she had heard that in the alienage, you were not considered an adult until you were married, and the difficulties of life forced many to adulthood very early. "Lightning" had probably been a family man since he was fifteen, or even younger. She felt a little twinge of jealousy and sorrow for all the simple, natural experiences her cursed magic had denied her. She forced a smile to her face.

"I'm sure she's beautiful. Well, I should be getting home. Good day to you, and it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance."


	48. Chapter 48

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Five: Reeling**

Anora sat in her chambers for a long time after her father departed, her head reeling. There was too much to process; her father was a half-blood, his mother was a Dalish elf. And on top of that, he told her of how he'd been held down, helpless, his head ratcheted back by strong hands, forced to watch while she was brutalized and viciously slain. It was…almost impossible for her to imagine her father helpless. She couldn't picture the child he must surely have been, it seemed as unlikely a creature as those unicorns she'd imagined long ago.

Wrapping her mind around the concept of her own heart pumping elven blood through her veins was difficult. She had never thought herself prejudiced, she had been raised to treat all equally - equally _badly, _some said, but the important part was equally. It might be easier to deal with this new information if she could but determine whether it was the knowledge that she was part elven or the fact that she had lived almost forty years _not knowing _she was part elven that bothered her most.

The information was dangerous, she knew - to herself and her children. Alistair probably wouldn't care, if he were to learn of it, but the Landsmeet…oh, the Landsmeet would have plenty to say, for certain. Most of them were still affronted by the fact that Maric appointed a half-blood to the arling of South Reach. They would demand an immediate annulment of her marriage, or a divorce if the Chantry made difficulties. But annulments and divorces were rare dispensations indeed. Much more common, throughout the history of Thedas, was either the surreptitious assassination of the offending Crown Matrimonial…or a public execution. Granted there was no history of that in Ferelden, but Ferelden was a young nation compared to most. But Alistair would never stand for it…provided he had the strength to stand.

She found that she was a trifle angry with her father for telling her this story at all, even though she had asked for it many times in the past. She understood precisely what he'd meant when he'd apologized both for telling her these things so late, and for telling her at all. Moreover, she understood what he'd meant when he kissed her and left, saying, _"If _you want to see me later, I'll be in my rooms." There was some small part of her that _didn't_ want to see him again. It might take a while for that small part to die away.

Her seneschal entered the sitting room. "Your Majesty, you asked that I inform you when Teyrn Fergus Cousland arrives at the palace - his retinue has just entered the grand hall."

"What? Oh. Yes, that's good. Allow His Grace an hour in which to settle in and speak with Lady Cousland. After that, speak to him and tell him I would like to see him. Make it the Little Audience Chamber."

The seneschal clicked his heels smartly and bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty."

Anora watched the man leave and then sighed and prepared herself. This new…information…changed nothing, just as her father had said before even telling her. Set it aside for now and get on to business. There was always more work to be done.

* * *

"Sister!"

"Fergus! Putting on your winter weight already, I see," Elilia teased, as she gave her brother a hug.

"The city is warm, Sister. The wind off the Cliffs of Conobar is bitter and cuts right through to the bone," he said, grinning.

"Ha! How much weight will you recommend I pick up to protect me from the cold of _Gwaren's _winters?" she asked.

"Sister, I recommend you stay _inside_ during Gwaren's winters. Under a pile of heavy blankets and furs, in a room with several blazing hearths."

"That won't do much for my cachet with the locals," she said. _"They _face the winters head-on, and I don't think they have much love for those who won't."

"Gwareners are insane, Sister. And very thick-bodied." He stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. "So it's true, then; the rumor that their Majesties are offering you Gwaren. The Queen's idea, I presume. What are her terms?"

"Only that I make her daughter my legal heir," Elilia said.

"Mm hmm. What about the other _half _of that rumor?"

"I don't listen to the rumor mill, Brother. Elucidate, please."

"It is _rumored, _dear Sister, that you are to wed. The Queen's father."

"Rumors are such silly things, don't you think? Sometimes it seems to me that people will say anything just to create a sensation."

"That's not an answer, Sister, that is an _evasion."_

"It's an accepted strategy."

"Sister, please. No jokes. Just tell me. _Are you and Loghain going to marry?"_

"That's the plan, Fergus, yes."

"Maker's breath."

"You should be happy, Fergus. I don't have many years left in which to make little Cousland heirs for you, after all."

"_Mac Tir _heirs, you mean."

"Nonsense. Anora didn't take _her_ husband's last name. Either time. Why should I?"

"Sister, can't you do anything by the book?"

"_Brother, _the 'book' you speak of was written ages ago - _by men. _I don't consider that it has any application in my life."

Fergus sighed deeply. "All right, so perhaps your children will be Cousland in _name, _Sister, but they will still be Mac Tirs in blood, and - "

"And what? Mac Tir blood is good enough to sit the throne. Isn't it good enough to grace the Keep at Highever? Any child I bear will be sired by Loghain Mac Tir, Brother, and I'm sorry if you don't like that, but the fact of the matter is that no child of mine will _be _Loghain Mac Tir. If the idea is simply too reprehensible to you, then feel free to remarry and produce your _own _heirs. I am not particularly sold on the concept of motherhood, anyway."

"Sister, I - "

"No, Fergus. I love and honor you, and because I do, this conversation is over."

* * *

"Lord Loghain, I've been looking over some rough schematics I happened upon…"

"Dworkin. 'Happening upon' things generally implies a certain degree of treachery. From whom did you 'happen upon' these schematics?"

"Er…from you, Ser."

Loghain turned to glare fiercely at the dwarven inventor. "And just how did you 'happen upon' schematics that were in my possession?"

"Don't get your knickers in a knot; I saw them on your writing desk last time we discussed your plans for improvements to the city wall. Since that was more Voldrick's bailiwick, I had time to glance over them. Some good concepts there, to be honest with you. Who engineered them?"

Loghain scratched the back of his head and looked sheepish. "No one. That is to say, they're just…ideas. I'm no engineer."

"_I _am."

"You…think you could do something with them?"

"Your Lordship…I _know_ I can do something with them."

* * *

"What exactly are you up to? What plan is my sister fulfilling for you? Is this all just about getting your father's nobility reinstated? Or is there something deeper and more devious under the surface?"

"Teyrn Fergus. Straight to the point, I see. Please, have a seat."

"Thank you, Your Majesty, I prefer to stand."

"As you will. Well, I see I don't need to debrief you on the basics, at least. Yes, your sister intends to marry my father. Whether you believe it or not, this was not through any office of mine. I merely chose to take advantage of a preexisting condition. Granted, they might not have married _legally _without my machinations; your sister seems somewhat opposed to the concept, for which I am in no position to blame her. Marriage is often an institution wherein the woman suffers, at the very least, a _diminishment. _That will not be the case with my father, at least in the way he treats her. How she is viewed by others outside the marriage is, unfortunately, a different matter. But I am certain she will be able to hold her own."

"How my sister is viewed after this is only _one_ of my concerns."

"I understand. Will it help you to learn that the intention is to grant my father only the title of Teyrn-Consort once all is in place? He will have no vote of his own in the Landsmeet, and only as much power to rule over the teyrnir as Elilia allows him."

"That is of very little comfort, Your Majesty. Elilia will allow him a great deal of latitude."

"Do you not trust your sister's judgment? She has proven herself quite a capable leader, _I _think."

"I - that's not what I - "

"Fergus, I understand. Elilia is your baby sister, and all the family that remains to you. But she is a grown woman, and by whatever guides such things as this, she is in love. Frankly I would have preferred my father marry a woman more…_opposite_ him, if I am to tell the truth. Someone who could balance out the extremes of his nature. Elilia is rather extreme herself, but I think they could be good for each other."

Fergus seemed to shrink slightly inside his clothes. "I…want my sister to be happy, and I am not…_quite _of the same opinion held by many of the Landsmeet. My father respected yours, and Elilia respects him, and she seems able to trust him in spite of what happened during the Blight. I…I will support your proposal in the Landsmeet, Your Majesty. For Elilia. Because it is what she wants."

"Thank you, Teyrn Fergus. I appreciate your support, and I know that your sister will, as well."

* * *

"Hello, Elilia. Did your brother arrive? You look a bit…perturbed."

"He arrived. And we had words. It will be all right, but it's got me perturbed, as you say, for now. What about you, Little Bird, did you have a good adventure? You don't look particularly happy, yourself."

"I…I actually had quite a lovely day, for the most part," Seanna said.

"Uh huh. And for the _other _part?"

"I…met a young man."

"Well, that can be good or bad, depending on the man. Tell me; do I need to break out the champagne, or do I need to break a skull?"

Seanna smiled, slightly. "Neither. It was just a chance encounter. He was very friendly, and very attractive…and very married."

"Oh. Yeah, that kind of puts a damper on the scale of attraction, at least for most women."

"It just…it brought home to me all that I've missed out on in life, thanks to my magic. I was born in the Denerim alienage. If I hadn't been a mage, I would have lived there all my life, most likely. I would have married young, had children…and possibly I'd be scrubbing floors in some Tevinter's manor house right now, like the rest of my family. So I suppose it's not all bad. Still, I'm not certain I wouldn't have preferred such a life to…what I experienced in the Circle. After…"

"After Jowan."

"Yes."

"How bad was it, Seanna? I mean, you told me some things…"

Seanna sighed. "I spent most of a decade in solitary confinement. That alone was…brutal."

"And then the templars abused you."

"Some of them. There are always…bad apples. Greagior would have had them hauled out and flayed, before sending them to Aeonar, if he'd known of it, but…"

"What's Aeonar?"

"The mages' prison, or so they call it. I don't know of any mages who have ever been sent there, though. In fact, the only person I know who was sent there, if it exists, was a Chantry initiate who broke her vows and tried to help a blood mage escape the tower. Jowan, in point of fact. It's a threat, to keep mages and templars alike in line. If it's worse than the Circle, it must be hell on earth."

"Where is this Aeonar?"

"Somewhere in Ferelden, it is said, but I don't know where. In fact, I don't think anyone knows where, outside of the Chantry higher-ups."

"Wonder if Loghain knows of this? Seems to me he wouldn't be too happy to learn that the Chantry potentially has an unknown templar stronghold in this nation."

That prompted a wider, but even more bitter, smile. "If he should ever find it, let me know. I would love to watch him tear the wretched place asunder."

"Ha. You and I both, dear heart."

"Meeting that young man today…it made me think of things I've tried to forget. Back before…before I got into trouble for helping Jowan escape, there was a templar. Young, a new recruit. Very green, very idealistic…and very kind-hearted. I think he was attracted to me, actually. Always blushed and stammered whenever I was near, though honestly he did that a lot regardless of whether I was near or not. Cullen, his name was. After what happened with the other mages…with the demons…he changed."

"I met Cullen. He went through a terrible ordeal at Uldred's hands. He's Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, now."

"I know. But before Greagior sent him away…"

Elilia's hands curled into tight fists. "Was he one of the bastards that raped you?"

Seanna shook her head. "No. No, he never did that. But he was one of the templars that brought Jowan back to the Circle after he was captured at Redcliffe. He brought him to the dungeons where I was held. He…he cut off Jowan's head in front of me. I think he thought it might give me some kind of comfort to witness."

"Huh. So _that's_ what I sent Jowan back to. I'm sorry, Little Bird. In spite of what he did, I think he was a good man. And I know he was your friend."

"In spite of what he did."

"You paid for those mistakes far more than he did, I think."

"They were my mistakes as well as his."

"Your punishment was disproportionate to your 'crime,' Little Bird, and if I have my way, there will be a reckoning. The Chantry owes a debt it can never repay."


	49. Chapter 49

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**No Bull From the Big Bull, Volume One, by Varric Tethras, a Humble Storyteller**

**Excerpt: White Rose**

_Two years. Anora had not seen her father for two years. He'd sent gifts, fairly regularly in fact, and sometimes he sent messages to her mother - terse updates, characteristically bereft of any emotion. But the last one…it said he was coming home. Not permanently, only for a month or so, but still…_

_He left when word came from Denerim about Queen Rowan's death, word from Mother Ailis that King Maric needed his help. He didn't say goodbye when he went; he never did, he didn't like goodbyes. Anora, young as she was, had a strong feeling that he'd had to say too many goodbyes, of the permanent variety. He just patted her on the head, mounted up, and rode away._

_That was shortly after the incident with mother's rose bush. Even though she was just a child, Anora's instincts were very keen and rather sophisticated. She understood what happened in her father's mind when that wilting flower died beneath his touch. The rational part of his brain, the only part he would ever admit to, knew it was ridiculous to assume he'd killed Celia's white rose bush, but a deeper part, the part that bought into the old superstitions, the part that fed the part of him that hated himself, believed that he spread death like a plague. And Anora knew that part was what kept him running away from his family._

_She was excited, hopeful, and a little afraid to see him again. Her mother fed her on tales of his heroism and all that Ferelden owed to him, and Anora revered her father. When he allowed her the luxury, she loved him as well. She hoped that when he next returned to Denerim he might take her with him; she was old enough now, at thirteen, surely. She loved her mother dearly, but her father was special; they were very much alike, and she shared more kinship with him than her quiet, retiring mother. She was eager to see the big city, too, and the palace._

_She had been there once before, six years ago, with father and mother both. That was the last time her mother went to Denerim; Celia did not like the city, it made her feel closed-in, and the nobles, either at the Landsmeet or in social circles, made her nervous and self-conscious. Anora had enjoyed it; she liked the crowded markets, the beautiful clothes, and even though the palace was not as pretty as such an edifice ought to be, she liked the massive presence of it. King Maric was a kind man, though he treated her with a humorous, comradely condescension that was hardly her preference, and Prince Cailan had been a willing accomplice in her schemes, nicely malleable even if, as a boy, he was hardly an ideal playmate. He was more or less her _only_ playmate, though now she was old enough to know that matters between them would be forever complicated by that marriage contract King Maric had insisted upon. She wasn't exactly eager to marry _anyone_, it seemed a disagreeable sort of union for a girl of her independent nature, but at least Cailan didn't have warts on his face or fingers, like a lot of boys she knew. Her overall impression, at this point, of boys as a species was that they were remarkably prone to warts and usually smelled bad._

_There was no way of knowing exactly when her father would arrive, so life had to go on as usual in the meantime, much as possible. She tamped down her impatience and continued her daily regimen of exercise, schoolwork, gardening, archery practice, and pleasure reading. She enjoyed working with her mother amongst the flowers - the nasturtium and tulips especially were their "together flowers" that mother and daughter both tended lovingly. But mother's roses…those were her especial province, and Anora did not intrude upon Celia's work when she was among them. It was not something she could ever remember having been told, it was simply accepted in her mind that mother worked the roses when she wished to be alone with her thoughts and the beautiful blooms she loved. Anora sat on a bench nearby and read instead._

_That was what she was doing when she heard the dull clop of hooves coming up the dirt track from the nearby entrance to the Brecilian Passage. She did not look up at first - riders from Denerim were never exactly common, the Passage was dangerous, but there were enough of them yearly that the sound did not automatically make her expect her father. When the hoof beats kept getting louder and closer, however, she knew that someone was approaching the Keep, someone with a good-sized retinue._

_She looked up as the Gwaren banner-carrier rode through the gates. She was not at all surprised to see that father had set Imrek to carry the flag, rather than the usual herald. It made the self-important jackass feel more important, but it also kept him several riders away from her father. Guards rode in next, in heavy plate, and then Cauthrien, looking more grown-up than Anora remembered her, and then…_

_How very typical of her father to ride at the back of the line, rather than surrounded by guards near the front as he was supposed to. Oddly, he was not wearing armor. Nor did it appear as though he'd worn it at all through the long trip; his leather trousers were filthy and his rough-weave linen shirt showed signs of heavy weather - it rained nearly every day this time of year, brief but drenching downpours that were chillingly cold, but which her stubborn sire would undoubtedly press on through regardless. The entire line of men and women looked decidedly sodden. The retinue moved their horses carefully through the Teyrna's garden with respectful hails, and her father brought his mount up and climbed off._

_Celia and Anora both rose to their feet when the riders came in; they stood and watched in silence, tense and a bit nervous, as Loghain emptied his saddlebag of its overflowing contents. A rose bush, half-grown, and although it was very early, a single white rose budded on it. Anora was in a good position to see her father's side, the side that took the damage from the rose's thorns; his shirt was ripped and bloody. It was a lesson for her that she never forgot; beautiful as it was, the delicate flower had drawn blood from the mighty warrior._

_He stepped forward, flower in hand, and silently offered the rose bush to his wife. There was an expression on his face Anora puzzled over momentarily: it was patience, apology, sorrow, and fear all mixed together, but mostly it was apology. It took some time before Anora knew exactly what he was apologizing for. Not the dead rose bush, or even for having been gone two long years, but for not being the husband and father he knew his family needed._

_Celia took the offering, smiled at the pale beauty of the single bud rose, and set the plant aside in order to throw her arms around her husband's strong shoulders and hug him; no thought of forgiveness in her mind because it never occurred to her to suppose her husband had anything to apologize for. They were a bit of an odd couple, Anora supposed: her mother, quiet even when she spoke, small and delicate and beautiful even though that beauty was unadorned, and not given to question her simple faith in the Maker, in her nation, and in her husband. Her father, quiet only _until_ he spoke, big and brash and beautiful only in his strength and skill, and given to question any and everything, most especially himself, though he never let his questions stand in the way of what he saw as his duty. They came together and created her, somewhere in between the two of them._

_When next her father returned to Denerim, Anora went with him. On that occasion, she continued to indulge the youthful mischievousness she had enjoyed previously, though with a slight edge of flirtation added to it. Then they returned home and stayed in Gwaren for another year and a half…and then her mother died._

_It was rather unexpected; though she was small and appeared fragile, Teyrna Celia was a strong country woman and the picture of health. But Anora's birth had been difficult, and two other pregnancies had ended in miscarriage. She desperately wanted another child, a son to carry on the Mac Tir name for the next generation. The final attempt at making that wish a reality ended not in life but in death, for both her and the baby she carried. Had the child lived, Anora would at last have had that brother her mother wanted so very much for her to have. Anora was fifteen at the time, an age when daughters are generally actively pulling away from their parents - their fathers perhaps particularly. Celia's death brought her closer to him. He needed looking after; he was capable but oddly impractical about some very basic things, like his health. Then, too, the household needed care and attention, and her father was completely oblivious to the running of such things. She threw herself into the task of being the new Lady Mac Tir with all the poise and skill King Maric's fancy tutors had drummed into her, and charmed not a few people with her grace and beauty._

_Some little while after her mother's death, long enough for the first shock to wear off but not nearly long enough for the deep ache of grief to subside, they returned to Denerim together, there to put the hard memories behind them and heal. The nobility, who had scarcely acknowledged Teyrna Celia, and indeed had very nearly forgotten all about her, crowded round to offer half-honest condolences. Anora did her best to avoid this first crush of well-wishers and curiosity-seekers. She did, however, overhear something that stayed with her long after._

_It was Bryce Cousland, not exactly a friend of her father's, if he could be said to have friends, but at least a man he respected and who seemed to have more than the usual respect for him. He gave his condolences, more genuine than most, and then commiserated on the loss of the son who never drew breath._

"_I know it must be a wrench, losing your heir."_

"_I have an heir," her father had said._

"_Well, yes, but not really, right? Anora is set to marry Prince Cailan; she won't inherit Gwaren. And even if she did, the Teyrnir would fall under the name of her husband. I know it's too early to consider it now, but you really ought to remarry and keep trying for that son. Now that the Mac Tir name is one to be reckoned with, it should be perpetuated."_

"_My girl is enough."_

_Anora overheard those words, stated as simple incontrovertible fact, with a little thrill of pride. It hardened her resolve to be a woman of substance, with pride of place in the world._

_The pinnacle came at one of King Maric's diplomatic fetes, held in honor of a visit from Empress Celene - a tense affair for all involved. As the only woman available to represent Gwaren, and as the King himself had no Lady to represent the Crown, Anora was called upon to act as hostess of the event, side-by-side with Eleanor Cousland of Highever but with, perhaps, slightly more office in the event than the elder stateswoman. She was, after all, the daughter of Ferelden's greatest general, representative of the future generation of men and women capable of overcoming the crème de la crème of Orlesian's chevaliers, and betrothed to the Crown Prince. She was meant to be highly visible on this occasion._

_It was well that her place was near the head of the table, for while the heir sat to the right hand of the King as was traditional, she sat in her father's usual seat to his left. Her father sat, for this occasion, to her right, and this put her in excellent place to keep close tabs on him. He glowered throughout the entire affair with a terrible fierceness even for him, but he was allowed no other vent for his feelings. Each time he opened his mouth to make some cataclysmically undiplomatic statement Anora, who knew her father very well indeed, deftly popped some choice tidbit from the banquet into it with a mild, "Try this, father: isn't it sumptuous?" The food was Orlesian, and Loghain didn't like it for more than merely patriotic reasons - why on earth did everything have to be slathered with sauce? The clear and present threat presented by the nearby platter of escargots quickly taught Loghain - who had eaten far less pleasant things than snails in his life - to keep his mouth clamped firmly shut._

_Despite these machinations in the name of preventing a diplomatic incident and potential bloodshed, Anora did not like Celene, who she found both superficial and highly artificial. Several years younger but already one of the most powerful women - the most powerful _people_ - in Thedas, she was overprivileged and greatly overindulged, and also an incorrigible flirt who practiced her childish wiles on every man at the table, with special emphasis on Cailan who was regrettably susceptible. Celene even made some cute comment about the attractiveness of the "strong, silent type," with a coquettish twinkle in Loghain's direction, but Loghain merely scowled his fiercest in return. So no, Anora was not pleased to play court to such a creature, but she had mastered the art her father knew of but had never learnt to employ: grace and courtesy that was be at least as effective as blades for destroying your enemies. By the end of the evening, her sparkling presence caused the Empress to burst out with the only unscripted remark she'd made the entire time: "Anora of Ferelden is a solitary rose amongst the brambles." The comment made Anora smile. Roses were beautiful, graceful, attractive…but they were hardly defenseless. She thought that Celene, childish and silly-headed as she seemed, was fully aware of that very fact when she said it. Anora _wanted _her to be aware of it. One day she would be Queen, and while she would be as beautiful, graceful, and attractive as she could be in that office, she would keep her thorns sharp. She was a Mac Tir; she was dangerous no matter how prettily she was packaged._


	50. Chapter 50

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling._

**Chapter Forty-Six: Tarquin**

It took several days for Anora to straighten out how she felt about what she had learned to the point where she could face her father again. It was mostly what she'd learned about _herself_ that bothered her; further reflection upon her own heart proved that she _had_ harbored deep-seated prejudices she hadn't even realized existed, and it shamed her. She had thought herself of higher mind than that. Perhaps even her fears about what would happen to her if it became known that the Queen of Ferelden was quarter-blood were based mostly upon those prejudices, but the fact that at least half the Landsmeet nobles already secretly called her the Peasant Queen made it seem inadvisable to come forward with this information regardless, particularly as Alistair was known to most of those same nobles as the Bastard King. She needed to be cautious with these fools for the sake of her children's ascension. But it didn't take her all that long to decide something very important: this was a story she needed to know, and a story that needed to be preserved for history.

She knew who to speak to. Having an Orlesian Bard on staff, risky as it might be, was very useful for keeping one's ear to the ground. She called the dwarven novelist and biographer to meet secretly with her.

"Your Majesty," Varric said, a bit nervously, with a bow.

"Ser Varric Tethras. I understand you are something of a biographer."

"I…did publish a biography of Hawke. It was…fairly well-received, outside of the Chantry folk who think she's some sort of demon for helping the Kirkwall Circle."

"I read it. I thought it quite well done. You obviously care a great deal about the subject." She had read it, in fact, only the day before, so it was of course fresh in her mind.

"Hawke is a special sort of lady. She's my friend."

"And yet you don't inevitably paint her in the best light," Anora said. "Some of her actions seem very much like mistakes, as you write of them."

"Hawke is special, but she's not a goddess. She makes mistakes, from time to time. Sometimes she even looks a little bit foolish. No more so or less than any other mortal."

"You didn't _have_ to write about her mistakes. If you cared so much about her, I would have thought you'd gloss over them."

Varric shrugged. "Hawke wouldn't want that. She's…honest. Plain-speaking. She's not afraid to show history her flaws. I respect that about her."

Anora studied him carefully for a moment, and then nodded as she reached her decision. "I want you to write a biography for _me, _Ser Varric."

"Er…I would of course be honored, Your Majesty, but I would have to say, I think you yourself would be the best person to write the story of your life."

"I am no writer. And it is not _my_ life I wish preserved for posterity…although I suppose parts of it will be, incidental to the rest of history. I want you to set down the story of my _father's_ life."

Varric's eyes opened wide. "I…wow. I would certainly _love _to, Your Majesty, but I'm not suicidal."

"My father will not know of it, and if he finds out I promise you my protection," Anora said, with a faint smile. "My only condition is that you may not publish this story or allow anyone to read it without my express authorization - which may not come soon, possibly not in our lifetimes. Some of the information is…sensitive, and must be handled delicately. I want the truth to be known for posterity, but I do not want it to affect the position of my children."

"I'm sure I can be discrete, Your Majesty. Particularly since I would assume trespass would be looked upon with _severe _Royal disfavor."

"Indeed it would. And of course your cooperation in this matter will be received with great Royal _approval_. I will have a contract drawn up, just to make things official. Actually getting the story out of my father may take time, but I will pass along to you what I know as I learn it. It may be rather piecemeal, but I am sure an author of your talent will be able to clean it up and make something of it."

"I look forward to the chance, Your Majesty."

"Excellent. The tone of your biography of the Champion of Kirkwall is exactly what I want for my father's biography. Though it will undoubtedly be strongly biased, given my proximity to the subject, I want it to be as honest as possible. It is what he would best appreciate, I think. My father, too, is given to plain-speaking."

* * *

Oh, for a dragon attack or a seaborne invasion to spice things up. She didn't really want something bad to happen to Denerim, but Elilia could have used a distraction. The Boar Hunt was coming up, perhaps that would be enough, but frankly she doubted it. Her brother, dear as he was to her, had evidently been convinced that he needed to give his approval to her upcoming marriage…but he did so with exactly the sort of noble-minded condescension she'd been afraid he'd adopt. At times he acted as if he believed she was in some way addled, a delicate innocent whose feelings needed to be protected. Other times he seemed to be of the opinion that she was a cunning mercenary using Loghain to get control of Gwaren. Like she really wanted it. The natives were never going to respect _her_ while they held such high opinion of Loghain. Let him have the running of it: she would vote in the Landsmeet and perform her duty faithfully in the time-honored Cousland tradition. Gwaren was not her goal.

Loghain could have provided her with some of the distraction she needed, but he had spent a good percentage of the last few days closeted with Dworkin and his elven shadow, who was harder to put out the door than Champion, working on some classified project. At least she assumed it was classified, since he didn't talk about it. Granted, he wasn't likely to talk about anything unless pressed. She wasn't interested in the workings behind Dworkin's mad inventions, only the results, so she had no particular desire for inclusion in the project.

So she wandered a lot, no goal or destination in mind. She wandered the markets with Seanna, the taverns with Laz and Varric, the palace and grounds by herself. It snowed more, and the temperatures fell, and the gardens were now blanketed with several inches of sparkling white powder. Servants kept the paths clear, the more delicate perennials, like the Queen's roses, were carefully protected with purpose-built covers, and the excess snow from the shoveling was carefully hauled away to be piled elsewhere and not offend Royal eyes or inconvenience Royal passage.

It was there in the gardens where she saw a most unusual sight. By the height, the odd individual swinging his legs on the bench could only be a dwarf, but his build was all wrong. He was almost…gangly. Awkward. She realized with some shock that what she was looking at was a dwarven teenager.

Dwarves kept their children out of sight. The cultural reasons behind that were unknown to her, she only knew she'd never seen a dwarven child, not even the child of Ascendant surfacers. She'd never even met Oghren's daughter, though the child had been named for her. The stringy-haired young person before her was as much a surprise to find in the Royal gardens as a unicorn.

He hopped off the bench when he saw her approach. He had a pale face, quite round; the only part of him that was dwarvenly plump. His brown hair had a greasy look. And he was cursed with quite a bad case of adolescent acne to go along with numerous pockmarks like craters on his skin.

"Warden?"

"Not any longer. Were you…waiting for me?"

He nodded. "I have a letter of recommendation for you from my master, as well as a message from my mother, who sent me here."

"When did you arrive?"

"About a month ago. I was allowed to ride with some of the wagoners supplying crew and materials for the sentinel statues project."

"You've been waiting a month to see me? I've been here for more than two weeks."

He nodded again. "I was aware. I did not wish to disturb you, however, and did not know how to secure a proper introduction."

The dwarf had an odd voice; a plumy accent very much more like a Ferelden rather than the typical Orzammar dwarf, though the King's Tongue was of course derived from the dwarven trade language that was the primary tongue of the dwarven capital, once no more than the seat of surface trade. But despite the nasals, his voice was strangely flat. He sounded almost…_Tranquil. _Which of course made no sense whatsoever as dwarves could not be cut off from a Fade to which they had no access in the beginning.

She held out her hand for the messages he'd brought her. "What's your name?"

"Tarquin." She couldn't help but notice that he made no mention of caste or family, though of course if he had come to live on the surface he no longer had either by dwarven tradition.

She scanned the letters quickly. The one from his mother was excited, reverent, almost glowing. She wracked her memory until the name in the signature at last fell into place for her. Zerlinda, the disgraced daughter of the stiff-necked miner Ordel. So Tarquin was the casteless child she bore that Ordel had wanted left in the Deep Roads to die. She had never expected the grateful girl to make good on her promise to send her son to her service. What on earth was she to do with a teenaged dwarven miner?

The other letter offered suggestions. Evidently the lad was not a miner at all, but the apprentice of a prominent enchanter of the Smith caste. How a born-casteless child of a Mining caste woman ever managed such a feat deserved explanation, but the letters told her nothing.

"You're an enchanter. If I may ask, how did you come to be apprenticed? The impression I took from Orzammar was that upward mobility of castes was…problematic."

His bland expression changed not the slightest. "That is true. However, in the days since King Bhelen's accession the caste restrictions have loosened somewhat, particularly since the dissolution of the Assembly. My uplifting was purely accidental. When I was very small, my grandfather gave me a bit of raw lyrium ore to occupy me while he worked. I believe he desired that I would swallow it and perish. Instead, however, I crafted my first runestone. Very ineptly, but it caught the attention of a kindly-disposed enchanter who took me on as his apprentice."

Elilia sighed hopelessly. She had persuaded Ordel to take his daughter and grandson back into his home by appealing to his paternal love. The fact that it worked made her hopeful that the man would learn to apply that love to his grandson as well. It didn't sound as if he had. At least things had worked out well for Tarquin, though the thought of what _could_ have happened to him was horrifying. The ingestion of raw lyrium was a terrible agonizing death, and dwarves were not immune to it. But still the question persisted: what exactly was she to do with a teenaged dwarf, enchanter or not?

A possibility occurred to her. Whatever Loghain was up to with Dworkin, it likely had military implications. Dworkin was a decently competent enchanter himself but his focus was not runecrafting but a more broad-spectrum lyrium function, generally resulting in explosions. Perhaps their project could benefit from a runecrafter. Sandal was older, more experienced, and a savant…but it sounded like Tarquin might be a savant as well, or certainly some sort of prodigy. And Sandal was currently runecrafting for the army, which kept him quite busy apart from intensely happy. If Loghain didn't require Tarquin's services, or his craft proved too rudimentary for their purposes, he could be put to work helping Sandal. And either position meant she would not actually be expected to somehow care for this odd adolescent dwarf.

"Your master speaks highly of your skills. He says you have completed your apprenticeship. Is it typical for enchanters to achieve mastery so young?"

"No. Runecrafting of my master's caliber usually takes decades to master. I, however, seem to possess considerable natural talent."

"Well, I think we can find work for you, if you want it, Tarquin. There's always room for a good dwarven enchanter."

He nodded again, and said in his strange emotionless voice, "Thank you. The inactivity has been tedious. I look forward to returning to work."

* * *

He was with the children in the nursery, she knew, and the nursery looked out on the rose garden courtyard. Although she didn't particularly like the gardens when they were white and barren, Anora bundled herself into her fine cloak of pale blue wool of the finest quality, threaded with 24-karat gold and lined with ermine, and strode out into the cold white world.

She stood in the middle of the path, looking up at the children's window. He would look out and see her, that was a given, and sooner rather than later; even when he appeared perfectly still he was always checking windows and doorways, defensive weak points through which surprise attacks could be launched. That, and he was just naturally restless.

She saw a flicker of movement at the window, and soon the balcony door opened and a large dog slipped out, followed by a larger man and, shortly thereafter, his ubiquitous elven shadow. She nodded to Loghain and, without the slightest concern for the sake of his bones, he vaulted the low parapet and dropped to the snowy ground ten feet below. Fortunately, either he was sublimely aware of his strength despite his age, or the Maker watches over idiots as Anora had always suspected. The thought made her smile slightly.

Chatterly, or whatever his name was, remained above, hands folded and a beatific smile on his face, but after an assessing peep over the parapet Champion leapt down beside her master. Loghain stepped toward Anora, evincing some hesitation. She wasn't terribly surprised at that. The time it had taken her to assess the situation must have given him serious doubts.

"Father."

"Hello, Anora."

"Please, walk with me."

"If you wish it."

He fell into step beside her and she slipped an arm through his, surprising him. After a moment, he covered her hand with his own. "I wasn't exactly certain you would ever speak to me again," he admitted.

"I was ashamed to face you, actually," she said. "Discovering that I secretly harbored bias against the elven race was sobering. I hope you are not too disappointed in me."

"I ought to have told you ages ago. Or perhaps I ought not to have told you at all."

"No, I am glad that I know. And I want to hear more. Everything you can tell me."

"If you're certain. Some of it is even uglier than that which I already told you, though, and I warn you: I am not the hero you persist in seeing. I have done things in the name of duty that no man can be proud of, even before the Blight. I…wish I could say otherwise."

"I understand, father. Duty isn't always easy."

"For instance, perhaps, the duty I set for you by signing that blasted marriage contract when Maric insisted? I have often wondered whether that was even the right decision to make at the time I made it, let alone in the face of what came later. But it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Now I'm not exactly sure why that was."

"Cailan was good to me, father, even though he did plot to set me aside. I don't think he meant any harm to me. He was…naïve."

"I should have let you make your own decision on who - or _whether_ - to marry. I was just…worried about you. As long as I could keep Ferelden flying free colors, I thought Cailan offered a secure future for you."

"I am still Queen. I expect that means he did."

"Security is relative, my dear. If the Orlesians should seize Ferelden, it would be your neck on the chopping block, right alongside Alistair's. In truth, I'd prefer you _weren't_ Queen of Ferelden…though I am glad it has a strong ruler in you."

"Alistair isn't doing so bad himself."

"Thanks to you. If he had no one but _Eamon_ to depend on, this nation would be in Celene's back pocket already."

"Do you truly think so badly of Eamon?"

"My dear…he's an _ambitious _man, at the very least. That some of his ambitions may be his wife's influence I am fairly certain. I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that he was one of the noble bastards who encouraged Cailan to set you aside."

He watched her carefully as he said it, so Anora made certain to school her expression so as not to let him see that he was correct. In truth, though she made nice with the so-called "chancellor" who was still very much acting as Arl of Redcliffe despite having turned it over to his brother, she agreed with her father's assessment of the man and rather wished the assassination attempt, regardless of who had ordered it, had been successful. Eamon had been quick to reingratiate himself to her in the wake of the Landsmeet. He knew how to play the game, but Anora was not fooled. He was a dangerous opponent, no matter how much he pretended to be an ally. Smiling enemies were far more troublesome than those who were open with their hostility.

Despite her game face, her father seemed to see confirmation in it regardless, or perhaps he had already known the truth in some other way. He patted her hand gently and said, in a conversational tone, "I don't seem to remember whether or not it was I who set that apostate to poison the rat bastard, but I hope I did. I just wish I'd sent someone more effective."

"You don't remember?"

"My dear, there is much about those dark days I cannot recall with clarity."

"That is…strange. You often choose not to remember names, but other than that, father, your memory is faultless."

"Don't worry about it, my dear."

She drew away and faced him. "No, father, I must worry about it. There were many times during that year that I felt as if I did not know who you were at all. Now you say that you do not remember what you did and did not do. Something was wrong with you, I know it. Was it that bastard Howe? Did he use something against you?"

"Not that I'm aware of, my dear. He was prepared to, I'm sure, if I became uncooperative. I can't imagine that he held a lyrium-deprived templar with family ties to prominent nobility in his dungeons for a year for no apparent reason. Alfstanna's brother testified that _my men _took the blood mage from him, Anora; and I have no doubt whatsoever that Howe sent _my men _on a good many unauthorized missions in my name. I should have been more watchful of him."

"I wasn't referring to the possibility of extortion, father. Howe had mages in his personal retinue; it would not surprise me to learn that some of them were maleficarum."

Loghain sighed. "Don't start."

"Don't start what?"

"Don't start blaming my crimes on blood mages. _I _am responsible for my actions and the actions of men under my command."

She considered him shrewdly. "You had information, didn't you, on blood mages working against you? I can't believe you would withhold that from me."

"I have no information, Anora, just a pernicious tale with no true substance, obtained from a man eager to save his own skin."

"_Tell me what you know. _Consider it a royal command if you must."

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Very well, if you must insist: an Orlesian agent passed along a rumor that the Empress had spent quite some time installing a network of maleficarum in Denerim, gathering blood from prominent figures and working a little chaos here and there amongst the nobility. The informant claimed she had a considerable amount of _my_ blood saved up, that she may even have sold some of it to interested foreign agents. Elilia pounced upon this news as an excuse for my actions but I don't believe it for a minute."

"Of course you don't. You don't want to believe that you could be as susceptible to mental control as the rest of us. Father, this answers every question and doubt I _had_ during that time."

"_No. _It answers _nothing."_

"Stubborn man."

"Nagging child."

"All right, I have a question for you, and I want your honest answer. Did you know that Howe held me captive?"

"I did not know you were held against your will, no."

"What would you have done if you had?"

"I would have killed the bastard. What did you think I would do?" He took a step closer. "You told Elilia, at the time, that you were afraid to go back to the palace because you feared I would have you killed. I thought, when I heard about it, that you were playing to your audience, gaining her support. Were you truly afraid of me?"

She hesitated - not long, but long enough. He stepped back again and folded his hands behind his back. "I see. I'm sorry, my dear - I thought you would have realized that, when I said there was nothing I would not do to protect my country, there was one possible action I did not add into the equation. The idea that I would ever be in a position even to _consider_ that option never occurred to me."

"I knew you would not hurt me, father," Anora protested. "But as I say, the man you seemed to be at the time was _not_ the man I knew. So some part of me worried - a little - just how unpredictable you had become."

"Unpredictable, or _unstable?"_

"Truthfully, father…both."

He shook his head. "I would never harm you. It is true that there are few extremes to which I would not go to protect my country, but if it meant sacrificing _you_, my child…Ferelden will just have to burn."

She stepped up and hugged him. "I know that, Daddy. I'm sorry."

He chuckled slightly. "You haven't called me that since…well, at_ least _since your mother died."

"I thought I had to be very grown-up from then on."

"You did an excellent job of it, my dear, but I could have wished you'd stay a little girl just a bit longer - though I fear to tell you, in my mind you're still six years old, with pigtails, and always shall be."

She laughed lightly. "I do want to say just one thing to you, father."

"What is that?"

She poked him in the chest. "If my daughter leaps from the balcony in emulation of you, you're a dead man."

He laughed. "Orana put her down for her nap already, and Duncan is busy with his pencils. Don't worry, dearest - I usually try not to be too foolish in front of the little ones."


	51. Chapter 51

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** Sorry for the long silence; the holidays ALWAYS bring some sort of minor apocalypse in this household. In this instance what started out as strep throat somehow developed into blood poisoning despite the fact that I was on antibiotics already. I am now on stronger antibiotics, am sleeping almost constantly, and by the time anyone actually reads this ought to be on the mend. Despite the fact that my concentration is shot and my writing output is down from pages a day to words a day I hope I'll have at least a couple of chapters ready to go by then. I'm at a critical juncture storywise, so what a time for a slowdown!

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Seven: Boar Hunt**

Elilia Cousland didn't, as a general rule, look into mirrors.

There was nothing cosmetic about it, no sense of self-loathing kept her from it; she merely didn't encounter mirrors all that often on a daily basis. She didn't take a great deal of care with her appearance much of the time; her simple ponytail required no fussing, and she had applied her warpaint makeup often enough that she did not have to see her work to get it right, and proper silver-back mirrors were rare in Ferelden anyway. There were many in the palace, of course, including an entire ballroom walled in gilt-framed mirrors of gaudy Orlesian-style ostentation (and didn't Loghain hate that? You bet your ass he did) and there was a small mirror over the washbasin in her suite of rooms where she washed her face and hands, but she didn't really give her reflection much consideration. What she saw there rarely changed, and never quickly. The first faint wrinkles on her forehead, discovered a year past, had no power to upset her.

But when she happened to glance up from the bowl on the morning of the annual Boar Hunt, she realized all at once what had been coming on gradually for a couple of weeks. The dark summer tan of her face had faded out to winter paleness, a process that usually took a month at least, if it happened at all.

"My Lady, are you ready to dress?"

The voice belonged to her new handmaiden, a young elven girl named Anya. She was cute and freckle-nosed and local, and Elilia now believed she was part of a royal conspiracy.

"Anya…what is that face cream you slop on me every morning?" Elilia asked as she entered the dressing room.

"Her Majesty gave it to me to use," the girl said. "She said it would help your complexion. Seems to be working - your skin has gotten all smooth and white and so pretty."

"Dear Queen Anora…no great fan of the concept of 'leave well enough alone.'"

"Her Majesty wants you to look your very best for your wedding day, of course, my lady."

"Huh. If that's the case then why has she made it impossible for me to get out and get any proper exercise? If I propose a too-brisk _walk _she suddenly realizes she has business for me here in the palace."

"Well, you shall have plenty of exercise today, My Lady."

Yes, and the Queen wasn't particularly pleased about it, either. Had her father not proffered the invitation before she could forestall him, Elilia was quite certain that Anora would not have allowed her anywhere near the boar hunt. Of course, women didn't ordinarily ride to the hunt. Fox hunts, certainly, but pig-sticking was apparently the especial province of the male of the species. It wasn't tremendously surprising. Noblewomen were typically not the rough-and-ready creatures that Ferelden women of common stock were almost expected to be. Perhaps Anora thought that riding with the men would damage Elilia's precious reputation, lessen their respect for her, cheapen her as a political ally.

She allowed the unwanted servant to help her dress, and let her slather on another full pint, almost, of cool clear face cream. She slipped into her ordinary dragonbone mail - her new Archdemon mail was to be saved for purposes of impressing and intimidating the Landsmeet - and by force of habit strapped Vigilance to her back before realizing that the greatsword would only be in her way today. She swapped it out for a simple set of daggers. She would have a long spear with which to hunt pigs, but it never hurt to be prepared for anything.

She hoped she wasn't making a mistake, joining this hunt. She couldn't help thinking that this was just another excuse for noblemen to get together, get drunk, and swap tall tales of game killed and women bedded. It was hard for her to accept the comically ugly, ungainly-looking Ferelden boar as a real threat or a difficult kill. But Loghain seemed to take them seriously, unless he was just looking to spread the humiliation, and she had been at feasts where the main course was a whole roast boar large enough to make the great banquet table groan beneath its massive bulk. So perhaps there was something to this tradition after all.

The Great Boar Hunt was not the only such hunt in Ferelden, but as the only one hosted by the Crown it was the biggest. It was also the only one held so late in the year, when the spring piglets were well-grown and snow was on the ground. The plains around Mount Drakon were scoured by heavy winds that swept the snow aside, piled it at the foot of the mountain, and drove the boars out of the foothills and forests to forage a brief window of time in the open before returning to the shelter of the trees to forage for sparser rations when the snow was at last deep enough to blanket the grass completely. It would be tough hunting, for humans and horses alike, but the sturdy Ferelden cobs they'd be riding were born for the snow despite their short legs, and while they were gentle enough for beginning riders, they had more than enough spirit to ride hell-bent into battle with dangerous prey. The disadvantage? Well, anyone with legs like Elilia's was going to look at least slightly ludicrous astride one of the stout-bodied creatures.

She arrived at the stables somewhat before the appointed hour to find Loghain already there and waiting. Chatterly having taken over valet duties for him, he was able to dress with a well-practiced manservant's efficiency, but she was surprised and somewhat suspicious when she found that he wore no armor.

"I was under the impression that you considered wild boar a dangerous foe," she said, with some accusation in her tone.

"I do," he said easily, not stirring from where he leaned against a wooden support post.

"But not dangerous enough to wear armor? You might have informed me; now I'll look a complete fool."

He chuckled. "No, _I _shall. Everyone else will be wearing armor, I assure you. But in just two short weeks my daughter intends to stuff me into what bodes to be the heaviest, nastiest suit of armor I've ever worn. Allow me my freedom while it lasts, please."

"Are you speaking of the Archdemon plate that Master Wade fashioned for you, or our marriage?"

He grinned and momentarily adopted a heavy common accent. "Go aisy, Missus. Di'n mean'a ruffle yer feathers. I'm talking about the plate, of course." Then in an aside he added, "It's _three_ weeks to our wedding."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Nice to know you're looking forward to it, at least."

"Dearest, it is _you_ who seem rather apprehensive about it, not I. Not that I can blame you any for that. I wish I could set your mind at ease somehow."

"I'll be…fine."

Other riders began to arrive, keeping to the noble tradition of being fashionably late, and Elilia was relieved to see that they were all wearing some degree of armor. The male contingent of the Landsmeet was highly over-represented. Even tough-as-nails, tradition-defying noblewomen like Bann Alfstanna were not present. Elilia found herself the recipient of quite a few sidelong looks. It was a little more embarrassing than she'd expected, but if she was keeping the bastards from talking dirty about one poor wench or another then she was grimly satisfied.

Her brother arrived. That Fergus had a propensity to join in with masculine revels was something she knew - he had never tried to hide it - but at least she was reasonably certain that he maintained a degree of respectability even when the talk ran high. Still, she was not the least bit surprised to see the abject horror on his face when he realized she was present to participate in the hunt.

"Sister, you _cannot _ride to the hunt. Not _this_ hunt," he hissed when he was close enough for her to hear his harsh whisper.

"Might I ask why not?"

"It…it isn't _proper."_

"Fergus, when I was sixteen and came to you begging for an idea on how to curtail Arl Urien's suit when he was dogging mother and father to promise me to his son Vaughan, you didn't seem terribly concerned with 'proper' when you suggested that dockside tattoo parlor."

"This is different, Elilia. You're a woman now, you have to be more cautious of your reputation. Besides which, I never expected you would actually _get a tattoo."_

"That was a foolish supposition," Loghain said from where he still leaned. Elilia ignored him.

"And what risk am I putting my reputation to by going out sticking pigs? I might have thought rather less than I risked by going to a seedy tavern's back room and letting some sweaty dock worker carve swoops on my face that will still be there when and if I grow old and grey and wrinkled."

Fergus was clearly exasperated. "Elilia, the boar hunt is _dangerous."_

Her eyes popped, and she regarded him with wide-eyed surprise. "Dangerous. Fergus, are you honestly worried that pig-sticking might be too _dangerous? _It wasn't all that long ago that I faced down a bloody _Archdemon_ and killed it with a sword not much better, in that instance, than a pig spear. I might have been better _off_ with a pig spear, actually. But _this_…is too _dangerous?"_

Loghain strolled up to them. "Cousland, if I might be so bold as to talk strategy with you, I'd suggest a swift retreat before your forces are completely overwhelmed. You're charging deadly lines right now, Serrah."

Fergus, who was being as supportive of the upcoming marriage as he could be without actually speaking to his future brother-in-law, withdrew to see to his horse and equipment. Loghain put his hand on Elilia's armor-shrouded shoulder and squeezed.

"If I am ever quite that clueless when I speak to you, my dear," he said, "and believe me, I know I can be quite clueless indeed with words and with women, you have my express permission to lop my head off immediately."

"Thank you, I'll remember that. Tell me, did you get the impression that your daughter was not terribly pleased, either, that I'll be joining the hunt today?"

"I…believe she is attempting to keep you from strenuous activity, yes," he said.

"Why, do you think?"

He sighed. "If you think about it for a bit, perhaps it may come to you."

"I've thought about it quite a little, and all I can think is that she's trying to reshape me into something more properly soft and curvy and feminine."

"That may be part of it, I suppose."

"What else could it be?"

"Your brother needs an heir, doesn't he?"

"Yes, but…wait, are you suggesting that Anora thinks I'm too physically strained to bear a child?"

"Maker, this is not a conversation I ever wanted to have, but…well…how long has it been since you've had your courses, Elilia? They're not monthly, are they?"

This was not a conversation _Elilia_ ever wanted to have, either, but she was forced to confess that they were not.

He shrugged in a _"There, you see?" _gesture. "Then, too, you're in your thirties, and you haven't had a child before. That makes it a little bit more dangerous for both you and the hypothetical child."

"Anora was my age; she didn't have any problems."

"Anora was wise enough to take all possible precautions. I'm sure you'll be fine but if it's all the same with you, I'd prefer it if you didn't take any unnecessary chances with your health. I'm less invested in the idea of another child than I am in the idea of you outliving me."

"But you think pig-sticking is less risky than childbearing?"

He snorted. _"Leaping from the Cliffs of Conobar _strikes me as less risky than childbearing, or dancing naked in front of a dragon's nest. Frankly I don't understand how anyone manages to survive it. And men have the audacity to call womankind the _weaker _sex!"

"Were you present for Anora's birth?" Elilia asked in some surprise.

"Not in the room, no - the midwife wouldn't allow it. But I could hear plenty from where I stood with my thumb up my ass. It was…a difficult birth. It never got any easier for Celia, either."

"You kept trying for more children even so?"

He shrugged helplessly. "She wanted another child. When I tried to talk her out of it, she became severely upset. It didn't matter to her how painful it was or how damaging it might be to her health. Each miscarriage cost her a little piece of her soul, I think, but she refused to believe she could never bear another child. The last pregnancy…killed her."

Elilia was surprised by the way he choked up as he spoke of it. He spoke so seldom of the late Teyrna - indeed, _everyone _spoke so seldom of the late Teyrna - that it was easy to forget about her. The years she knew he'd spent far from his family in Gwaren made it easy to assume that he felt little for his long-deceased spouse. Elilia wondered what that meant for her.

"Fergus has been damnably protective of late," she said, as if she had no worries whatsoever. "I wonder when he took leave of his senses."

"You're all the family he's got left, Elilia, and I daresay these past years have been lonely ones for him. Frankly, I think he would be wise to consider marrying again himself."

The head huntsman gave the order and everyone mounted up. The horses tossed their long manes with eager anticipation on the trek out of the city and down the snowy mountainside. Elilia's own mount was considerably more excited to be on the trail than she. She was beginning to wish she hadn't come along.

They met up with a band of elven servants at the base of the mountain where the snow thinned out. At first she thought that it seemed an unusually large group of servants just to man a refreshment tent, but a contingent of elves broke off from the rest and fell into step on foot alongside the horses. Loghain explained that these apprehensive-looking fellows were the "beaters," who would make a great deal of noise and pound the bushes with wooden paddles in the hopes of flushing a boar for the hunters. "Isn't that dangerous?" she asked, horrified. "Extremely," was his grim reply.

He gave her a few pointers as they rode on, about where to hold the spear and how to brace it - and now far _not _to lean out of the saddle when stretching for a pig. "Believe me, you don't want to be on the ground with an angry boar. Most of the time they run, but a lot of them are ornery enough to turn and fight. They're damned smart, too, and they're good at taking you by surprise - committing you to a chase and then jinking back and attacking when you think you've got it on the run."

The first pig was flushed and the chase was on. Elilia was in poor position on the far end of the line of hunters and first blood went to Bann Franderel. Worse still, the pig itself went to Arl Vaughan. Elilia was surprised to find that infuriated her, to see the prick receive even foolish honors. She vowed that the next pig would be hers. Fired by the spirit of competition, she rode her willing horse harder.

She didn't take the next pig, or the one after that - an enormous boar which, perhaps predictably, fell to Loghain after taking a chunk out of an over-eager hunter's poor horse - but she finally got her first boar, a respectably large specimen she was quite proud of. It was a long day in the brisk winter air and she found that she enjoyed it despite her fears for horses and beaters. It was quite a successful hunt, with fourteen good-sized boars taken, and no serious injuries. Even the horse wounded by Loghain's boar was expected to make a full recovery. Even so, Elilia felt no great urge to join the hunt for the remaining four days. Loghain, too, claimed himself satisfied and unwilling to ride again. Elilia was sure their absence would relieve a great deal of tension for the other hunters and Anora ought to be satisfiedthat her father had made his presence felt among the nobility.

They repaired to the palace for an enormous feast and much back-slapping. Franderel was praised for taking the day's first blood and Vaughan took a bow for first kill. Loghain's kill proved the largest taken for the day, and halfway through the feast the huntsman came in to announce that it measured a full nine feet three inches from snout to rump, and weighed in excess of twelve hundred pounds. Elilia was not surprised. That boar had done more than all the others combined to disabuse her of the notion that wild pigs were comical or harmless.

Though the day had been physically taxing Elilia found herself too keyed up for sleep. She slipped out of her room and snuck through the halls to Loghain's suite in the next wing. She was unsurprised to find him wakeful as well. He let her in, she stepped into his embrace, and they made love. When it was done, she slept.

* * *

Somewhere in the night another knock roused Loghain from sleep. He pulled on a pair of trousers and answered the door.

An elven servant bowed respectfully. "Ser, Her Majesty Queen Anora wishes to speak with you in the Throne Room immediately. It is quite urgent."

"I'm on my way," Loghain said, thoroughly wakeful on the instant. Whatever Anora wanted with him this late at night, it could not be anything good. He didn't even bother to put on shoes or a shirt.

The corridors were eerily quiet, in a way they ought never to be even so very late at night. No servants stirred, and even the one that had roused him had vanished utterly - although in all fairness, servants were masters of vanishing. Worried, he strode at top speed, just short of actually running.

The woman he found seated regally in the King's throne was not Anora, was not, in truth, a woman at all. Flemeth cocked her head slightly to one side and smiled a thin, superior smile as he entered.

"Ah, you got my message, I see."


	52. Chapter 52

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Eight: Wasted Opportunity; An Unfortunate Interlude**

Arl Vaughan Kendalls had a narrow escape that day. Elilia had not been in position to see, but it was his horse that was injured by the enormous boar, and if Loghain had not swooped in at just the right moment, riding hard with his spear in position for a strong jab straight to the creature's heart using his horse's momentum against the tough-hided boar, he would have been gored and trampled by the beast and most likely would have perished. Vaughan did not at all like having been saved by the "jumped-up peasant," and he didn't like losing the honor of taking the largest boar on the field just because his fool horse stumbled. Useless beast should have been put down immediately.

If Vaughan knew just how close he'd _truly_ come to death that day, perhaps he would have counted his blessings.

Loghain didn't like him, and Vaughan knew it. But it went deeper than that. Loghain considered him politically dangerous as well as a vile excuse for a man. Even as he rode in he couldn't decide whether to hold his horse back just enough to let the boar finish the job it had started, or even to "accidentally" miss the boar and strike the man instead. Accidents like that happened in the boar hunt quite often, and he was certain that quite a few such accidents had been equally engineered. Loghain didn't know that he _wasn't _going to do it until it was done. In the end he simply couldn't - he'd had his fill of cold-blooded murder.

Even as he rode back for a fresh spear and a round of congratulations on his fine kill, Loghain considered it a wasted opportunity.

But Vaughan didn't know that, or he might not have tempted fate that night. Too drunk and frustrated to feel the caution of latter days, he took to his old habit of prowling the alienage. He wasn't so bombed off his gourd that he was foolish enough to allow himself to be seen, or to take his prey back to the estate with him. Like the beast he was, he stalked the dark places, unafraid of the other predators that lurked there, and soon enough he found what he was looking for.

Nesiara didn't ordinarily walk the alienage alone at night, but it was not far from her house to the Hahren's, and Adaia had a troublesome cough and complained of a sore throat; in the wake of the bloody lung, every sniffle was cause for extraordinary alarm. Valendrian gave her a packet of herbs for a soothing tea and, concern wrinkling his serried brow into still more deep furrowed lines, offered to walk back with her.

"Oh no, Hahren, there's no need. It's not far, and it's cold out. Stay inside where it's warm," she said.

Though he expressed his misgivings, Valendrian eventually allowed himself to be persuaded and Nesiara headed back out into the night alone.

This was not ordinarily as dangerous as it seemed. Though there were many predators in the alienage at night, few of them were actually there to prey upon _elves_. Unwary humans who were foolish enough to wander in where they didn't belong, looking for trouble, almost invariably found it. But there was little profit in a lone lady elf for the thieves and muggers, and the _other_ sort of predator was rare. Humans who came to the alienage to stalk females were more apt to be beaten and robbed, and while there were undoubtedly elves who were quite happy to commit the crime of rape, only very rarely was one so sick-minded or arrogant as to think they could operate within their own neighborhood and not suffer the consequences. The alienage was prone to seek its own justice, since official channels were often closed to them.

But on an average night, the Arl of Denerim wasn't lurking in the darkness, out of sight.

She was much older than he liked, but pretty enough regardless, and best of all, alone. She attained her home and a quick peek through the loose-hanging shutters showed there was no one else there to cause trouble for him. The latch was rudimentary, weak. A swift kick was all that was required.

Nesiara barely had time to react before he was upon her and had wrestled her to the floor. She screamed and started to beg, but a plaintive call from the sleeping area of the little house - _"Mama?" _- turned her focus in another direction entirely. _"Stay in bed!" _she shouted, and in her heart she prayed that the angry Arl would be satisfied with her and not turn his attention to the little girl huddled under the quilt behind the partial wall.

Even as she was brutalized, Nesiara expected Loghain to save her. He'd done it before; he'd cut his way through an entire estate full of armed guards to reach her. But he would not come this time. He was in the army, and that was a great and noble thing, but he would not even hear of this until it was long over. Perhaps he would take revenge once he learned what had happened, but that was cold comfort.

Vaughan used her to restore his sense of power and dominion. She could not fight back; the man he was angry at could fight back only too effectively despite the fact that he was far past his time. The rape was satisfying but the beating he gave her was better. When he put his hands around her slender throat and throttled her he imagined he was strangling Loghain Mac Tir, or maybe that Cousland bitch he was apparently fucking these days. _That _was a woman who needed to be put in her place.

His rage spent itself with the same kind of abrupt release as his orgasm and left him vaguely disoriented and rather sleepy. He got up, put his clothes in order, and simply left. He did not give his victim another thought whatsoever.

Nesiara was not dead, but she was not far from it. Her consciousness was fading quickly but as she fell into the darkness she was comforted with the knowledge that Valendrian promised to look in on Adaia first thing in the morning, and he would see to it that she was taken care of. Adaia would be safe, and that was all that mattered. That was all that mattered.


	53. Chapter 53

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** I'm not a hundred percent yet, but I am better and getting more so. Historical note for those who cry foul at the end of this chapter: the concept of the atomic bomb predates knowledge of the existence of the atom by about two thousand years or so. Theoretical thinkers of the ancient Persian empire postulated that the energy released by splitting the smallest particle of matter could destroy a city the size of Baghdad. So even though Loghain doesn't know an atom from Adam, he could still come up with the theory.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Nine: Flemeth**

Loghain almost choked on it, but he set himself to speak as calmly and without offense as was possible.

"Get out of that chair," was the best he could manage.

Flemeth cackled her harsh, witchy laugh. She was not the stooped, wizened old woman he'd met previously; though her hair was still white and her face was still lined, she was instead a powerful figure clad in exotic dragon leather and steel armor, and in the dim light it was difficult for him to tell whether he was looking at a rather fanciful hairstyle or if she actually had enormous white horns swooping back from her brow. "Attempting the diplomatic approach, are we?" she jeered. "You're not very good at it. Still, I appreciate the effort. You seem to have learned _something _about good manners since first we met."

She leaned forward on the edge of the throne and peered at him with interest and curiosity in her yellow bird-of-prey eyes. "So tell me, _diplomatically_, what will happen if I _don't _get out of this chair?"

Loghain took a deep breath, held it a long time, and let it out very slowly. "If you don't, then I will consider this audience concluded. We have no _diplomatic _business to discuss."

She cackled again. "Not bad. You may be getting the hang of it, little by little. It will serve for my purposes, in any event. I accede to your request." She stood and stepped slowly down from the dais. "I have come, in the spirit of diplomacy, to give you a warning."

As she approached him, Loghain had to fight the urge to step back. He crossed his arms over his bare chest and fixed his usual stern scowl on his face. "Not to take vengeance?"

"For what?"

"For killing you."

She laughed again. The sound sent a shiver down his spine every time he heard it. "Clearly you failed, and thus revenge is hardly necessary. Particularly since it was all to my plan in the first place."

"I figured as much. I suppose then that your plan, whatever it was, has come to fruition?"

"Let us say that most of the pieces are in place. When you've lived as long as I have, you are very patient about such things."

"I see. And does your business here tonight have any relation to this plan of yours?"

"When you watch the world long enough, you eventually realize that everything relates at least indirectly to everything else. It's quite fascinating…assuming you're easily amused."

"You didn't answer the question."

"I did, actually, although I know you like things spoken plainly and spelled out clear. In the interests of saving time I'll make an effort. No, there is no real relation between my personal business and the business I have with you here tonight."

"Then what is this warning?"

She smiled; a thin, tight smile that did not extend past her lips in the slightest. "Your nation is terrified of enemies massing in the west, and it is true that a threat exists in that direction, but there is a more immediate danger in the south."

Loghain sighed and wondered exactly when dire threats became so commonplace that he could not begin to work up a moment's concern over them. "So what is it this time? Are the Chasind raising an army against us?"

Flemeth's smile widened fractionally. "You will wish that they were. Your soldiers aren't equipped to deal with what is coming, not even with the inventions you've been working out with that lunatic dwarf."

"So what _is_ coming, then?"

"_He _is coming," Flemeth said.

"_He? _Is this someone I should know personally?"

"You will. Tell me, when you gazed upon the Archdemon for the first time, did you take a moment to wonder whether there might be something greater and more terrible on this earth than she?"

"A moment was a leisure I didn't have," Loghain said.

"And I suppose I don't have to inquire as to whether your rudimentary imagination might have posed you the question in the days since?"

Loghain shrugged his shoulders and remained silent. Flemeth sighed and shook her head.

"It is astonishing to me how very curious and inventive you can be and yet at times it seems you have no capacity for philosophical thought whatsoever," she said after a moment's pause. "Had you stopped to ask yourself that very simple question, the answer would be: only one thing; an Archdemon's _father."_

"Its father? Aren't dragon males rather…_small, _comparatively? I've killed quite a few of them."

"Ordinary drakes, yes. But this isn't an ordinary drake. If you've ever wondered what makes an Old God different from any other dragon, the answer is simply: its sire."

"And this is what's coming, I take it? What makes this particular dragon so much different from its kin?"

"If you're asking how it came to be different, I cannot say for I do not know. I know only that it is ancient beyond comprehension; it has been asleep since before Arlathan fell to ruin. If instead, as I quite suspect, you're asking the more practical-minded question, in what ways does this creature differ from its kin? The answer is: in virtually all ways. All ordinary dragons trace their ancestry to Him, and no dragon, not even an Old God, could ever be so perfect in form or function. He is the epitome of terror."

"He's the first, eh? Then with what, pray tell, did 'He' sire the Old Gods?"

Flemeth's thin smile became a death's-head grin. "I did not say there was not an Archdemon _mother, _but rest assured, she is not nearly so dreadful a foe, and for the time being, not your enemy. Indeed, there's a chance that, if you succeed in ridding her of the sire, she will choose to ally herself with you - though I will say here and now, the chance is slim. Your concerns are not hers."

"And you say that the Ferelden army won't be enough to stop this creature."

"They can't even dent His scales."

"And yet I, a mere mortal man, am expected to slay this thing?"

"You'll think of something. That's what you do, after all."

"You're powerful and all-knowing: why can't _you_ kill it?"

"It could be that I am unable. It may merely be than I am disinclined. All you need to know is that I want Him dead, and it would amuse me and benefit you if you were the one to kill Him."

"In what way would it 'benefit me?'" Loghain asked.

"Well, for starters, if He is dead, then He won't make a snack of your nation's populace," Flemeth said, with a harsh laugh. "For another, the only reason He has awakened is to sire another Old God-caliber offspring, which would of course become another Archdemon in due time. As long as He lives, the Blights will never end. There is another benefit, but consider it a surprise."

"Tell me more about this…creature," Loghain said. "What can I expect to find when I face it?"

"Most likely, death," Flemeth said, "though Fate may have something else in store for you. His scales are harder than your hardest steel, and impervious to magic. Even the inside of his mouth is armored, and his eyes are covered over with scales, too."

"He is blind, then?"

"Oh, no, indeed not. The scales covering His eyes are no less protective than the ones on the rest of His body, but they are clear. He can see just fine."

"Ah. Wonderful. Well, then, how about his nostrils? Surely _they_ aren't covered over in scales?"

"Sorry, you'll not find a weak spot there. The insides are lined in hard scales; no archer could fire and hit anything vital."

"So how the hell do I kill it? Tell my men to aim for its asshole?"

"You'll think of something," she repeated. "You have time, after all. You may go about your life as you've planned for a time yet: celebrate Satinalia with the family, marry your woman, even put her with child. But don't linger long over the honeymoon. By first thaw, you'll want to mobilize. That's when He'll run out of Chasind to eat." She cackled.

She began to sashay toward the door, but paused on her way out. "A word of advice before I leave you, as a gesture of goodwill. Some of your plans are quite good ones, and some are absolutely ingenious…but that one you have, the one that's crazy enough for Dworkin to think is mad? _That _one I would suggest you discard, permanently. No peace can come of a weapon like that, for the world or its inventor."

"It's just theoretical," Loghain said uncomfortably. "It couldn't possibly ever be _done."_

"It could. In other worlds, it _has_. Thedas doesn't possess the necessary scientific acumen or the technology to do it, but if anyone could overcome an obstacle like that, it's you. I'm just saying _don't."_

"I'll…consider it."

"Good. There are grave consequences to playing with that kind of power. Eventually someone will let the nuclear cat out of the atomic bag, but it doesn't have to be _you, _and it doesn't have to be _now."_

"The what out of the where?" Loghain asked, befuddled. Flemeth smiled her narrow smile.

"Goodbye, Loghain. Perhaps we will not meet again. Perhaps we may. Fate is funny about those kind of things."


	54. Chapter 54

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** Oh boy. 2013 is off and running, and its running rough. I said before I got sick 'round about the holidays. Well, I kept GETTING sick for quite awhile; every time I thought I was better I'd get knocked down again and ended up with pneumonia twice, two more times than anyone should ever have to have it. In any event, because I was so sick, my family seemed to think it best not to stress me out with the news that my grandmother, in her nineties but seemingly immortal (still dancing as of December), had also gotten some bad medical news. First I knew she was sick was the day they came to tell me she had passed. So I'm kind of gobsmacked, and a lot more stressed than I would have been if I'd been allowed the opportunity to see her beforehand. So life is in a low right now, but I'm trudging on. It's been hard to pick up the thread of the story again but this is the kind of thing that helps me through things like this so as long as I can keep it going at least by littles things will work out.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty: Satinalia**

Elilia was not the only one who noticed, in the following days, that Loghain seemed even quieter and more perturbed than usual, but not even she quite had the will to attempt to speak to him about it. There was a worrisome tilt to his black brows that hinted at gathering thunderclouds she wasn't prepared to face.

_Enough bad news for now, _she thought to herself. _If he needs my help, he'll tell me._

Loghain, truthfully, didn't know how to speak of it. When he woke up the next day he could not be certain that what he'd experienced was real or only a Fade dream. Perhaps, with Flemeth (whoever or _what_ever she was), there was no difference. Whether the meeting was in person or only in his mind he took the threat seriously enough. He simply could not trust that anyone _else_ would.

Despite his worries he managed to enjoy Satinalia well enough, in between dodging feasts and festival speeches. He spent as much time as possible with his grandchildren, and enjoyed the holiday through their perspective. He was surprised to discover that both children were firm believers in Pere Noel, the Orlesian legend of an old toymaker who traveled from house to house on the eve of the holiday, leaving small gifts in childrens' shoes. He had not allowed Anora to be raised with that belief, and not because it was Orlesian; because it was a _lie_. Evidently she had come to consider it a _harmless_ lie, or perhaps Alistair had merely insisted stringently enough for her to accede. Loghain didn't disillusion the prince and princess; in truth, he somehow found the story rather…_charming_, now.

Ugh, perhaps he _needed_ something large and preeminently difficult to kill right now, just so he'd know whether it was possible to be both a doting grandfather and a proper Ferelden warrior.

Even when he was with the children his thoughts never strayed far from what the witch said was coming. An Archdemon father…definitely nothing that ought to be allowed to live, if it was at all possible to kill it. It would "amuse" Flemeth to see him defeat the beast - how much more would it amuse her to watch him eaten by it? But still, there had to be a way. Nothing was completely impervious…he hoped.

She had neglected to say whether the beast was corrupted or not. If it was, did that mean Ferelden would suffer another Blight? Andraste's ass, he had enough to worry about, didn't he? The Maker had a fine, troublesome sense of humor indeed, or at least Flemeth did.

Nothing much besides his grandchildren had his full attention, thanks to his newfound fears, in the days leading up to the holiday. Dworkin struggled on through their projects with only that odd teenaged dwarf to help him, Chatterly was utterly ignored (not that the cheerful elf hadn't been virtually invisible to Loghain almost from the start, at least when he wasn't living up to his new name), and even Elilia suffered from a severe lack of interest. To his credit, he did at least realize that he wasn't doing right by her, and vowed to make it up to her as soon as possible.

When he dressed for the Royal Fete in his Archdemon-leather sleeveless doublet with the high gorget and the blindingly white linen shirt with its Ferelden Opal cufflinks, Chatterly clapped his hands in delight and gabbled over the end result and the dwarf Tarquin, who passed him in the corridor on the way to nowhere in particular, said in his oddly uninflected voice that he looked "nifty." Loghain, who had never heard the word before in his life, couldn't tell from the youth's utter impassivity whether it implied that to the good or the bad.

Elilia, stunning in her Archdemon warrior-gown, held all eyes at the ball, and he danced with her without a murmur in penance for his recent inattention. The dress was beautiful but he found it disturbingly similar in style to the red leather armor that Flemeth, whether real or dreamt, had worn. But Elilia was Elilia, his goddess of battle, and with determination he set his worries and qualms aside for the evening. He would bring up the matter of the approaching threat at the Landsmeet, and if he was shouted down or laughed out of the chamber entirely he would deal with the problem on his own.

"I am sorry, Beloved, that I have been improperly attentive to you in these past days," he apologized with stiff formality as they danced. "I received news that has left me greatly troubled."

"I thought as much," she said as he twirled her. "Anything I should know about?"

"I expect you should, but not tonight."

"Oh dear me, you aren't trying to be romantic, are you?"

"I have my moments," he said, and gave her a half smile and a particularly graceful twirl.

"Well, if you don't let some other men dance with me tonight, everything will be spoilt for the Landsmeet. _We _are supposed to be the Queen's great secret, you know."

"Rather say we are her open secret, for I doubt that there is a man here tonight who does not know the rumors about us. We are wearing matching garments, my dearest. Perhaps you missed that particular lesson in Nobility School, but that is what is known as an advertisement."

"Hmm. Well, just let Arl Wulffe have me for the schottisches. Nobody else will risk their feet on him in those."

"Are those slippers of yours armored?"

"I believe they are at that."

After the dancing came the feast - roast boar, of course, and Elilia was fairly certain the massive beast at the Royal Table was one and the same the boar Loghain had killed on the first day of the recent boar hunt - and during the meal gifts were handed out. Imported fruits and nuts from the Crown to all (boars' ears and knuckles for the many mabari in attendance), and personal gifts from one person to another passed along by the bevy of servants who circulated. Queen Anora found herself presented with a circular box of the type that came from a fine chocolatier, beribboned but without the name of its sender upon the card. That in and of itself was telling, and she recognized the bold hand that had scrawled her name. A faint smile already started on her lips, she untied the pink silk bow and opened the lid. Marbled chocolate seashells, cunningly sculpted, hinting a promise of praline cream. Her smile broadened and she took a nibble of nautilus. Like the fabled elephant, her father never forgot.

Elilia, of course, delighted in giving gifts at all times, and she particularly enjoyed shopping for Satinalia. She had found presents for all her friends and relatives, and gave to Loghain a fine atlas with many beautifully illustrated maps rendered in brilliant color. Having discovered Seanna's interest in horseflesh, she purchased for the elven mage a beautiful roan mare of pure Ferelden cob stock, sturdy and dependable and as gentle as her new mistress. The horse caused something of a stir among the feasters when it was led to the main dining table with a huge red velvet bow on its neck. Seanna couldn't stop blushing for the remainder of the meal, though she was transported with joy at being the owner of such a lovely mount.

To her brother Elilia gave a new pair of dragonhide riding boots, to replace the pair he'd ruined on the third day of the boar hunt. For the King she found a realistic model of a high dragon, after rejecting the idea of giving him the model Urthemiel she had purchased from the Wonders of Thedas. It occurred to her somewhat belatedly that it might be seen as a bit of a slap in the face, considering he'd refused to face the Archdemon at her side. She gave Anora a golden jewel box from Rivain, enameled with flowers and vines in bright jewel colors, quite exotic to Ferelden eyes.

From Seanna Elilia received a set of hair brushes, made from turtleshell with a beautiful pattern. Fergus gave her a black velvet choker with a very familiar antique cameo upon it - one that had belonged to their grandmother and was lost when Howe massacred the family and sold off their treasures. Even though it did not look quite right over the high leather gorget of her gown, Elilia put it on at once. She then opened her gift from Loghain.

It was a silverite knife, no great surprise, but the trappings of its scabbard briefly puzzled her. The fine tooled leather featured two straps far too short for her waist and far too long for her arm. After a moment she realized what she was seeing was a lady's knife designed to be worn secretly on the thigh, hidden within a slit in a skirt. It was simultaneously utterly ridiculous and incomparably practical. She laughed out loud.

It was not long after the gifts were given out that Queen Anora retired from the table, a clear signal that the heavy eating was done and the heavy drinking could begin in earnest. Ferelden banquets were not tremendously high-class events, even royal ones, and in due time the great lords and ladies of the Ferelden court would be vomiting on the floor, dancing on the tables, and throwing food at one another. Loghain usually left the meal before things could devolve to that stage as well. Elilia actually rather enjoyed the drunken revelries, and stayed. This time, Loghain stayed also.

It could not be said that he was at all comfortable with drunks. He was, as he sometimes said, "adverse to stupid," and the most simple-minded fool on the planet could not on his worst day compare to the average inebriate. Then, too, drunken men had a tendency to think they should try their hand at fighting him. Loghain did not care to fight for frolic at all, and did not like fighting the inept. Drunk men were always inept, it was the nature of the drink to rob a man of his skill. And lastly, his sense of humor, such as it was, did not run to Ponce-and-July slapstick. Food fights did not amuse him in the slightest, particularly not when there were Ferelden citizens without enough to eat.

He pulled his chair slightly away from the table as the rowdies started up and sat with one arm hooked over the back of it and Champion's muzzle on his knee as the laughter grew loud and food began to fly. Champion could not understand the wastefulness of these people any more than her master could, and whined softly in concern and confusion while he scratched her ears comfortingly. Elilia, who did not need to be drunk to be uninhibited, was less sotted than most of the revelers but no less rowdy, and flung handfuls of mashed potatoes with glee and deadly accuracy. Being halfway to sober, she was also better at dodging gooey missiles flung at her, and her dress took little damage. But then, with a mad twinkle in her eye, she turned in her seat with a handful of what had once been an Antivan tiramisu and planted it firmly in Loghain's face. Drunk as they were, few of the nobles seated nearest were quite drunk enough not to feel a cold chill of sobriety spike their spines. A dread silence fell in the vicinity, unnoticed by the far side of the great room. Champion jerked her great head back and regarded her master with surprise and some dismay, and wondered as much as anyone what he would do.

Loghain ran one big finger through the sticky cake-and-cheese mess and tasted it. "Too sweet for me, my dear," he admitted, in a mild voice. He wiped off the bulk of the glop with his bare hand. "I think this runs more to your tastes, actually."

He reached out and painted her face with the dessert, giving her a mascarpone moustache and beard. The nobles seated nearby exhaled almost as one and began to laugh again. Elilia took Loghain's hand and licked it clean.

"Lets get out of here, shall we?" she said in an undertone, with a significance in her eyes he would have to have been blind to miss.

"A fine suggestion, my lady," he said, and rose to his feet.


	55. Chapter 55

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-One: Public Engagement**

Satinalia was never a one-day event in Denerim, even though the servants, ostensibly, received the following day off. Indeed, the holiday lasted right up to the Landsmeet, three days later. The day after the feast, Anora found her father ducked out of sight in a corridor for once devoid of washer women, apparently there to hide from a ragtag band of still-drunken nobles who were wassailing the halls of the palace more or less in the altogether alongside a fully dressed, mostly sober, and highly amused Captain Isabella.

"Father, I was looking for you. What on earth are you doing back here?"

"Keeping clear of the singing idiots," he grumbled. "Do you know where that disgusting little freak Kendalls has hung a sprig of mistletoe?"

"Unfortunately, yes I do."

"I'll cut it off him if he brings it anywhere near you."

"His Majesty has directed the guard to _gently_ steer Arl Vaughan and the others to a place where they can…ah-hem…'sleep it off.' The problem should be taken care of directly. But I wanted to thank you for the chocolates, father. Did you actually set foot in an Orlesian chocolatier? For me?"

"I did. In retrospect, perhaps I _ought _to have sent someone to do it for me. The poor sales clerk practically soiled himself when I walked in, and babbled insanely about how the _boss_ was an Orlesian but he himself was a loyal Ferelden and disavowed any knowledge of Orlesian activities. When I ordered a box of chocolates I sincerely believe his jaw actually fell off. Are they gone already?"

"Of course not, father; I only had one. I like them to last."

"Good girl."

"Would you care for one?"

"Oh, sweet Maker, no."

"I had a presentiment you wouldn't. I suppose I should share with Alistair, though. I hope he's not like Cailan. Cailan couldn't stop until he ate every candy in the box. I believe, if he had lived, he very well may have grown fat."

"Cailan didn't understand consequences," Loghain said, and promptly shut his mouth so tight his lips seemed to disappear.

"Cailan never had to suffer any. That was the crux of the issue. It is unfortunate that the first consequence he learnt of first-hand was one he could not live to profit from."

Undecided, Loghain held back his words for a moment. Finally he said, "I didn't want to leave him. To die."

"I know, father."

There seemed to be nothing else to say, so Loghain stuck his head around the corner to check the main corridor. "It seems the guards have successfully removed the naked carolers," he said. "I bet that seafaring woman put them up to it. Someone like that should never be grounded; the sea makes them crazier than they were before they set out on it. I do hope you'll have a mission for her soon."

"Alistair has intentions of sending her back to Nevarra, I believe, but her vessel is ill-suited to the ice choking the harbor. It may have to wait until spring thaw."

"What word, from Nevarra?"

"His Majesty has received some news from the west recently, and it seems to have made him quite happy, but he won't share it. I believe he's saving it for the Landsmeet. I do not know if it is a rumor of Nevarra or Orlais, however."

"Dare I hope he's had word of a resumption of hostilities on the Orlesian western border?" Loghain asked, fervently. Anora smiled.

"That is my hope, as well."

She took her leave of him, with a kiss on his cheek, and returned to her private chambers. Loghain continued his wanderings, which were not quite aimless. After quite a lovely interlude the night before, Elilia had vanished. She was not in her own rooms, and Seanna had not seen her. Loghain suspected she had gone to continue her holiday celebrations in the city, perhaps with Varric and Laz, and that was fine by him, but still he couldn't help but worry. Though he hadn't been paying the strictest attention, it had not escaped his notice that with the approach of the Landsmeet, Elilia was growing more and more restless and unsettled. Except it wasn't the gathering of Ferelden officialdom she dreaded, but what would come after. The woman was freakish and wild, like an unbroken colt, and if her fears grew strong enough there was no telling what she would do. The last time she disappeared, as he'd been told, she didn't reemerge for more than a year - indeed, the first sight anyone in Ferelden seemed to have had of her was at the war council prior to the Battle of Sulcher.

Maybe they should call off the wedding. Anora would be put out, but that was just too bad. Elilia didn't want to _be_ a wife, and that was all there was to it. He couldn't exactly blame her. In many places around Thedas the legal rights of a married woman were slim at best, and in some they simply didn't exist. Ferelden's marriage laws weren't so severe, but even so some of what was on the books had a definite gender bias no matter how "egalitarian" Ferelden claimed to be regarding the sexes. No one would be stupid enough to try and enforce those laws upon Elilia, but they existed and she knew they existed.

Of course, that might not be why she dreaded the institution at all. Maybe it wasn't so much that she would become _a_ wife than the fact that she would become _his _wife. He couldn't blame her for that, either.

A sudden decision stopped his prowling and sent him out of the palace to stalk the streets of Denerim. If he could find her, he'd ask her outright whether she wouldn't prefer to keep things between them as they were. He wouldn't hold her to an arrangement that was primarily the idea of his daughter.

With Champion trotting patiently at his heels, he left the broad thoroughfares of the high city for the narrow alleys of the low. He found Varric at his usual table in the dark confines of the Fishwife's Cloister, accompanied by Laz and Paragon, who Champion greeted with a formal sniffing, and Captain Isabella, who had evidently been ejected from the palace following the caroling incident. Elilia was not there.

"Felicitations, Big Bull," Varric said. "Have a seat, and a drink. What brings you to this den of iniquity?"

"Actually I was hoping Elilia was here," Loghain said, but he sat and ordered a shot of whiskey despite the early hour. "You haven't seen her anywhere about, have you?"

"Can't say as I have, no," Varric said. "But then, most of the night I couldn't see much of anything except the table I was face-down on."

"I saw her," Isabella said. "Just before dawn. Leaving your rooms, as a matter of fact, wearing what I would have to assume, by the fit, were your clothes. She headed straight out of the palace with that big white mutt of hers but I don't know where she was going or what she was planning. Still, I wouldn't think she's gone too far in boots three sizes too large."

"I was aware she had taken my clothes," Loghain said, dryly. "Thank you, Captain, for sharing that nugget of information with everyone."

Varric chuckled deep in his throat. "The man's lady steals his clothes and storms out in the wee hours of morning? Not that its any of my business or anything, but it sounds like the two of you had a fight."

"Actually last night we were getting on rather well, I thought," Loghain admitted, even though he realized that the way they'd take it was exactly the way it sounded. That couldn't be helped, since that's exactly what had happened. "That doesn't mean she's not upset with me, though. The approach of our wedding day has her rather nervous, I believe."

"Cold feet?" Laz asked.

"Possibly. I wanted to talk to her, ask her if she wants to go through with it at all. I didn't exactly propose, you understand - we both simply agreed to a proposition put forward by Her Majesty. My daughter can be a bit…hard to deny, however."

"Where do you suppose she's got to?" Laz asked.

"I don't know."

"You don't think she'd run off, do you?" Varric asked.

"Not a chance. But would she take a powder for a few months or so? Yes, I could see her doing that. Even if she doesn't, well…I just don't want her to be unhappy."

"You really care about her, don't you?" Isabella asked, wonderingly.

Loghain shrugged. "I owe her my life, my country…I owe her everything. And for some reason or other she seems to care about me, so how can I help it? How, when she is everything I have ever admired in a woman?"

"But why would she be nervous?" Laz asked. "She seemed raring for the wedding when we were on our way through the Blightlands."

"Elilia values her freedom. She may love me, but that doesn't mean she really wants to tie her future and her fortunes so inextricably to mine. And there's no particular reason why she must, as far as I'm concerned. I rather _hope _she'll say she wishes to wed, but if she does not I shan't push her to it. It would make the Landsmeet much happier, were we to call it off."

"I think it sounds like you need another drink, Big Bull," Varric said, and signaled the barmaid.

They sat for some time, drinking and talking. Loghain kept one eye on the door, because he expected Elilia to come through it sooner or later. He hoped she would, at any rate. If she'd gone for a walk, she'd come back thirsty, particularly if she was still clopping around in his old riding boots as Isabella claimed.

It was some hours, but eventually his patience was rewarded. Haakon trotted through the door first, spotted Champion, and came over to flop down beside her and Paragon, clearly happy to be in out of the cold and wet. Elilia followed in short order, the legs of Loghain's trousers - baggy on her, and tightly belted at the waist - were soaked clear to mid-thigh from the snow she must have ploughed through, and she looked cold. Hardly surprising, considering she wore only the black velvet doublet he'd worn to her ceremony when she was presented to the Landsmeet as nobility, and no cloak or gloves. She saw him, and seemed to waver for a moment on the knife's edge of slipping back out the door, but then her shoulders squared and she came forward as he stood to greet her.

"I know it is the proscribed treatment for exposure, but I think you could use a drink, my dear," he said, and signaled the barmaid. "Where did you go, if I might ask?"

"Just for a walk."

"Not in the city proper, if you were in hip-deep snow."

"I wanted to be away from people."

"People like me?"

She didn't bother trying to deny it. He led her to the table nearest the fireplace, and scattered the patrons sitting there with a fierce scowl. The barmaid brought a snifter of brandy, quite good stuff considering the shabbiness of the place. "Anything in particular happen last night that made you want to be away from me?" he asked.

"No, I was quite pleased with everything that transpired last night."

"I fancied that was so, but I couldn't simply assume it was not merely my natural arrogance, or standard male over-confidence."

He eyed her critically for a moment, and then unclasped the cloak tossed casually back from his shoulders, stood, and draped it around hers. "Better?" he asked.

She clutched the lion's warm fur close about herself and nodded. "Better."

"I have touched upon this subject with you before, Elilia, but it seems to me that the closer we get to the day of our wedding, the more anxious and upset you become."

"Don't all brides-to-be get the jitters?" she asked. "I don't even have the planning of the wedding to keep me from the twitchy-feet; Anora has taken care of all that."

"Not having enough to do may very well be part of it," he said, "but I don't think that it is all of it. Elilia, I'm just going to come right out and ask you - do you want me to tell Anora the wedding is off?"

She stared at him, goggle-eyed. "You…want to call off the wedding? But its only a week away."

One of her hands rested on the table near her glass. He covered it with his own hand. "I want you to be happy, my dear, and I most assuredly don't want to be the reason you are unhappy. If the idea of being my wife makes you unhappy then I don't want us to marry, and I wouldn't care if the bloody wedding was tomorrow."

She shook her head, but she was still pop-eyed. "It doesn't make me unhappy. I…love you."

That made him smile, a little, in his lopsided manner. "I thank you for that, my dearest, but if it isn't the idea of marrying _me _that bothers you, then it is the idea of marrying _at all_. I don't consider it entirely necessary to the progression of what is between us; we've done well enough together up until now."

She bridled a bit at that. "And we've had to keep it a deep, dark secret, which I hate. I can't go on that way, Loghain, and I won't, married or no. Are you saying you'd rather risk my honor than be married?"

He laughed, and raised her hand to his lips. "My love, I would do anything in my power to protect your honor, but one of the things I love best about you is that you are a _do_er, not a talker. In the process of your doing, I'm fairly certain your honor has taken a few stains. It does not seem to have done you any lasting harm. Your brother may challenge me to a duel if he wishes, but I doubt very much that anyone else would have much to say about the matter. Understand me; I _want_ to be married. I want that very much. But this wedding was pushed upon us by my daughter's plan, not our own. I want you to look within yourself, Elilia, and tell me truthfully whether this is really what you want, and if the answer is no then we need to call it off before it goes any further."

"I…I don't know what I want," Elilia said, her face a study in misery. "Marrying you is the right thing to do, I know it is, but something just doesn't feel right about it. Maybe it _is_ the way it came about. Anora didn't come right out and tell me that I must marry you, but even though we never actually told her we'd agreed to do it, she certainly had the whole thing planned out to the final detail when we got back to the city, without even the faintest hint that she feared we might not comply. Its been a long time since I had someone take charge of my life for me like that, and I suppose I resent it, even though I would have put Anora in charge of all this stuff anyway. _I _don't know anything about planning weddings and care even less, and she's good at that kind of thing."

"Do you think, if we'd planned this more amongst ourselves rather than allowing my daughter to do it for us, that you'd be happy to become my wife?"

She shrugged. "The idea of me being anyone's 'wife' strikes me as exceedingly peculiar and probably will for awhile to come, but yes, I think I would. Not the whole white gown and roses part, but the actual engagement; that part feels like it was stripped out of our hands."

He stood up again, and she watched him with a degree of wary uncertainty. Hers weren't the only eyes upon him: the entire tavern watched this exchange, almost breathlessly. He took both her hands in his and dropped easily to one knee before her. "I am a most unworthy man," he began, and Elilia protested weakly.

"Loghain, get up. You're not a man to bend a knee to anyone."

"You're right. In fact, I've only ever bent knee to three people, and you are the only person on earth to whom I have bent knee twice. And the _only _one to whom I have bent knee wholly by my own desire to do so. Now are you going to let me finish or not?"

She chuckled even through her discomfiture. "Oh by all means, pray continue."

"I am, as I say, a most unworthy man," he resumed. "But if anyone alive can make me better than I am, that person is you. In a little over a week, my daughter intends to see us married. I do not always agree with Anora on everything, but in this instance I feel she has the right of it, even if she has been rather high-handed about it. So I ask you, for myself, will you, Elilia Cousland, do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

Flushed, embarrassed, Elilia could only stammer for a moment, torn between those feelings and a degree of amusement. Amusement finally won out, a chuckle turned into an outright giggle, and she threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. "Oh, if you insist, you big moose."

Wild cheers broke out amongst the tavern patrons, and the strange, after-the-fact proposal received a standing ovation. The barmaid set everyone up with a round of ale on the house, in honor of the occasion. "Well of course they're going to marry," she was heard to say. "Who else would be wed to the 'ero of River Dane than the 'ero of Ferelden? An' who else could wed the 'ero of Ferelden than the bleedin' 'ero of River Dane? Its just a natural 'appenstance, innit?"

It would be difficult to say whether Loghain and Elilia noticed any of the goings-on around them. After her acceptance he pulled her off the bench seat and slid onto it himself with her on his lap, and they stayed that way for quite some time. Both of them knew this story would make the rounds quickly, and soon all the city, at least the common portion of it, would know they were engaged. The nobility, like as not, would be the last ears the tale would reach, but reach them it would, and probably before day's end. It was what it was; neither could bring themselves to care how much damage they'd done to Anora's case for Elilia's accession to Gwaren at the Landsmeet.


	56. Chapter 56

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Two: Showdown**

"Lords and Ladies of Ferelden, sworn keepers of law and justice, we gather here on the eve of the new year to settle the disputes of the year gone by, to raise issue that which must be settled in the year to come, and to renew our oaths of fealty to our Lord King and Lady Queen. I call this Landsmeet to order," Arl Eamon recited the traditional address to the assemblage with his usual grave solemnity.

The Landsmeet itself was three days long, on a good year. Uncomfortable even though the Archdemon armor was surprisingly light for its immensity, Loghain stood in almost petulant silence and wished to the Maker and his Blessed Andraste that Fereldens could manage just once to hash out everything they needed to say in a couple of hours. The oaths of fealty alone would take up much of this day, and most likely tomorrow at the very least would be dedicated to old business - some of it doubtless centuries-old. No one held a grudge like a Ferelden nobleman. Loghain had always hated the Landsmeet. How much more this country could do for its people if the bloody fools in charge would learn to dispense with the blasted traditions and actually settle something for once!

This fourth year as Teyrn of Gwaren, the Landsmeet had run for nearly the whole of two months, mostly thanks to a border dispute between a couple of rat-spit Banns. Long before the end of it, Loghain would have happily slaughtered them both and given their meager holdings to their mabari, who looked almost embarrassed by their masters' behavior. The number of dirty looks he was getting from the lords and ladies suggested that once the floor was opened to disputes, this Landsmeet was going to be rough, too.

Teyrn Fergus Cousland gave his oath first, followed by King's Protector Cauthrien. Loghain was interested to note that her version was really more a modified version of the Knight's Oath, rather than the oath given by actual nobility. That would change, if things went as planned. The Arls came next, starting with Chancellor Eamon Guerrin himself, followed by his brother Arl Teagan, and then old Arl Wulffe. The Arl of Denerim's turn was next, but Vaughan broke procedure immediately.

"Your Majesties, I have a dispute," he said, and there were gasps from the assembled. Bringing up a dispute before even giving voice to his oath was just shy of outright sedition. Vaughan was playing a dangerous game: if the King didn't allow him to speak, or if the nobility didn't agree with what he had to say, he could easily find his head on a pike before nightfall.

Alistair frowned. "Arl Vaughan, there is a time for disputes, and this is not that time."

Anora sighed. "Oh, do let's have out with it, Alistair. Let him speak his mind, what there is of it."

Alistair gave his wife an uncertain look, then gestured Arl Vaughan to continue.

"It is no great secret that Your Majesties intend to put Elilia Cousland forward as Teyrna of Gwaren," he began. "But I have heard from my seneschal that she was seen in a shoddy dockside tavern not three days ago, with _this man_. Who proposed _marriage_ to her. Which proposal she _accepted."_

The utter lack of reaction from the nobles indicated the revelation came as no surprise. Loghain resisted the impulse to grab, and consequently crush, the Arl's fingers, pointing at him. He stood impassively and attempted to choke down the rage this sniveling pipsqueak inevitably engendered in him.

Anora arched one perfectly-shaped brow. "You've yet to raise your dispute, Arl Vaughan. Please do stop wasting the court's time."

"So then you admit that it has been your intention all along to make this man Teyrn of Gwaren?"

"We are making Lady Elilia _Teyrna _of Gwaren, a position to which she is both eminently suited and of which she is unqualifiedly worthy. Whom she wishes to wed is her concern, not ours, but if you really must know the truth; yes, His Majesty and I were aware she intended to wed my father. A man I believe all will agree performed the offices of Teyrn to great effect for more than twenty years."

"Yes, Your Highness," Vaughan sneered, "right up until the moment when he _murdered our king _and tried to take over."

"I didn't murder Cailan," Loghain said, calmly enough considering the roil in his chest.

"You _abandoned_ him, traitor, on the field of honorable battle," Vaughan said.

"I did. But I didn't murder him. If anyone has any questions as to the difference, I would be most happy to demonstrate for the Landsmeet exactly what it looks like when I murder someone. Perhaps Your Lordship would care to volunteer?"

"You see the sort of man he is?" Vaughan cried out to the gathering at large. "Lords and Ladies of the Landsmeet, I ask you: is this the sort of man to whom we can safely entrust any least _portion_ of Ferelden's security?"

"More so than the fool in front of me, at any rate," Alistair mumbled.

Arl Vaughan continued as if he had not heard, and as he was a man who seemed to hear little past the ringing tones of his own voice, perhaps he had not. "You say that the intention to marry was entirely between Lady Elilia and your father, Your Highness, but if that is true, then why was it necessary for Loghain to propose again? Is it not so, in truth, that _you _brokered this marriage, to which they agreed only after the fact?"

Anora's brow rose even higher, in defiance of gravity and muscle structure. "I merely proposed they make sanction for a preexisting relationship, Arl Vaughan. For the sake of honor and integrity."

"Honor and integrity. Interesting concepts to apply to a traitor. A traitor who would not be alive today were it not for the intervention of the selfsame woman to whom he now proposes marriage. I submit to you, Lords and Ladies, my opinion that the Warden Cousland and the Traitor Mac Tir were in collusion from the first!"

Tension had built palpably in the air of the Landsmeet chamber as Vaughan built his case, not masterfully perhaps but compellingly considering he had the agreement of many present. But, as Anora had perhaps known he would do when she allowed him leave to speak, Vaughan pushed too far. The tension broke, and many in the audience laughed - even some of those who would have loved to have seen Loghain's head on the Landsmeet floor. Elilia was simply too well-liked.

As the trickle of amusement subsided, but before Vaughan had a chance to start in again, Teyrn Fergus stepped forward. "Your Majesties, if I may have the floor?" he said, with a bow.

"Please, Teyrn Fergus, pray speak," Alistair said.

"Lords and Ladies, I believe we all can understand Lord Vaughan's concerns. What happened at the Battle of Ostagar, and preceding Arl Eamon's Landsmeet, was a dreadful trial for all of Ferelden. Long-held beliefs were shaken, loyalties were tested, and the foundation of our governance trembled 'til we thought it may well break apart beneath our feet. But in the wake of that turmoil, Loghain Mac Tir proved himself once again the hero we could depend upon to protect our country and our way of life. In the years since he has continued to protect us, as a Grey Warden. Now that he can no longer fulfill that duty, he has resumed his former trust and safeguards us against the clear and present danger of Orlesian attack."

"And I would very much like to know why he is 'no longer able' to fulfill his duty as a Warden!" Vaughan interrupted. "The taint is supposed to be incurable!"

"If you find out, Vaughan, do tell me," Loghain said. "I'd like to know myself."

Fergus continued, igoring the interruption. "Many were ready to cast Teyrn Loghain aside back then. How easily we forgot how much we owed this man, who stood at Good King Maric's side and aided him and Queen Rowan in freeing our nation from the bonds of our enslavers. We saw only that he had turned from us, or so we perceived what he had done. It was not unjustified, and I will not stand here and say that it was. But my sister, who surmounted impossible odds and faced incredible dangers - including the assassins sent against her by the very man she now proposes to wed - saw that there was more to the situation, and to the Teyrn, than it seemed on the surface. She saw that he was worth saving, and time - _I _think - has proven her wisdom. How it happens that she has come to love him I cannot say, nor can anyone, for truthfully, what powers in the universe are more mysterious to us than the workings of our own hearts? But let no man nor woman among you say that she is wrong in her love until you can present good proof of it."

With a decisive nod, Fergus subsided back into the gallery.

"I notice, Teyrn Fergus, you didn't address Arl Vaughan's accusations regarding your sister's supposed complicity in Loghain's actions during the Blight," Arl Wulffe said, with a bit of a chuckle in his voice since he had a good idea exactly what answer Fergus would give, and wanted to hear it aloud.

"My dear kinsman, you know as well as I that those accusations are so ridiculous that they deserve no address," Fergus replied.

"Hear, hear!" someone, possibly Bann Sigurd, cried out.

"My Lords and Ladies, I realize that it is in defiance of tradition, but I move that we settle this matter forthwith," Anora said. "I submit it to you for a vote at once; knowingwhat you now know, that Lady Elilia Cousland will wed my father Loghain Mac Tir in a weeks' time, will you pass the Crown's proposal that she be placed in command of the south of Ferelden as Teyrna of Gwaren, with my daughter Anora Mac Tir II as her Heir Apparent, and my father, Loghain Mac Tir, as Teyrn-Consort - with only those rights and duties, beyond the base conferment of nobility, that his Lady wife chooses to entrust to him?"

"I have a query, Your Highness," Bann Franderel called out. "Will he, as 'Teyrn-Consort,' whatever that bloody is, have the right of High Justice?"

Anora looked questioningly at Elilia, who stood utterly expressionless through all of it as if she did not even hear the uproar all around her. Her impassive face animated at once and she said, "Of course he will. I may have to step out of court to tend to 'feminine matters,' after all."

There was a goodly smattering of laughter. In her astonishing blue armor, with the greatsword Vigilance on her back, no one could but doubt that the 'feminine matters' she referred to had anything to do with course blood or babies.

"And what if she should predecease him, Your Majesty?" Franderel continued, ignoring the jibes. "Before your daughter is old enough for her ascension? Does he hold Gwaren as Teyrn, or does the holding go into trust with someone else to watch over it, as is the case now?"

"The holding would go into trust, Bann Franderel," Anora said, "but as is often the case when such a thing occurs, my father would be the one to watch over the holding until my daughter could inherit.

Franderel grumbled, and he wasn't the only one, but neither he nor anyone else seemed to have voice for any further questions.

And just like that, for the first time Loghain had ever seen, the Landsmeet got something done quickly. The vote was raised, and while there were abstentions - Franderel was one, and of course Arl Vaughan merely stood dumbfounded in the middle of it all, possibly too thunderstruck at the way his actions had backfired to remember to vote at all - but no one had the courage to vote against the proposal. Elilia's support was too strong, and there were still many Banns who never totally lost their faith in Maric's Great Protector. Before he could ever have imagined Elilia stood beside him, newly-minted Teyrna of Gwaren.

Three or four inches shorter than usual, Arl Vaughan faded back into the gallery, and the Landsmeet prepared to continue the traditional business of swearing oaths to crown and country. Loghain forestalled this with a raised hand.

"Forgive me, Your Majesties, but something has been overlooked, I fear," he said.

"Really? What's that?" Alistair asked, though he seemed to know exactly what Loghain meant.

Loghain strode forward, the swing of his broad shoulders a thousand times more intimidating in the immense spiked pauldrons than it had ever been before, and grabbed Vaughan by the scruff of the neck. "One of your vassals, my Liege, has failed to swear his Oath of Fealty. I dare say it simply slipped his mind, for of course he could not mean that he is no longer loyal to the crown of his sovereign."

He pushed Vaughan forward and, whey-faced and trembling, the cowardly fool stammered his way through the oath. Loghain stood right behind him the entire address, looming large with his arms crossed on his chest and thinking how wonderful it would be to dispense a little High Justice on this least prepossessing specimen of Ferelden nobility. He fell back to stand beside Elilia, who once more seemed far removed from it all, once Vaughan made his escape.

"How do you do that?" he whispered to her. "It's like you don't even hear the idiots all around you."

"An old trick," she whispered back. "Whenever I'm in a situation like this, that promises to be boring as hell, I imagine that I am a little bird, perched in the rafters. And whenever I hear something I don't like, I imagine myself crapping on that person's head."

Loghain was hard-pressed not to burst into loud laughter as the nobles continued making their vows.


	57. Chapter 57

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **Mabari plot puppy, free to good home: see my profile for details (a LOT of details, probably more than you want).

* * *

**No Bull From the Big Bull, Volume One, by Varric Tethras, a Humble Storyteller**

**Excerpt: Ferelden's Pride**

_Ah, the Landsmeet. The yearly gathering of self-important fools who met to swear loyalty to their sovereign and squabble for days over which bannric held the rights to a particular wellspring. Standing in his ill-fitting armor, arms crossed characteristically across his chest, a fortress of enchanted silverite which no siege weapon could breach, Loghain glowered at the gallery, simultaneously on the alert for hostile overtures directed toward the King and silently judging each noble bastard therein. He'd give a copper for one or two of them, but few were worth a tinker's damn._

_There was Ranulf Wulffe, a good man, one of the few truly good men Loghain could name amongst the nobility. Well, there were other good men, he supposed, but few of them knew the value of actually working for and serving the people who paid taxes to them the way Wulffe did. And there was Bryce Cousland, another reasonably decent man who was good to his vassals. Leonas Bryland; another decent man, but the half-blood made Loghain a little bit edgy. Sometimes when he caught Bryland's eye, like now, the man would give him a bit of a nod. Probably nothing to it, of course, but somehow he couldn't help but suspect Bryland knew they shared more in common than having been raised more or less peasant. Loghain didn't worry for himself if it became known he had elven blood, but he worried for his daughter. Bryland's own little girl undoubtedly suffered due to the fact it was widely known she was quarter-blood, and she already had a reputation as a right little shit; whether directly as a result of the snubbing or because of the way Bryland spoiled her to make up for it, Loghain didn't know. Either way, he didn't want Anora to go through that. She got enough pettiness from the little noble ninnies due to the fact she wasn't born in their circle. Fortunately she was quite a bit older than Habren Bryland, who was only six or so, because he didn't doubt for a minute Leonas' daughter would have loved a chance to put down the common-born girl, since quarter-elf or not, at least she was the child of the acknowledged bastard of a nobleman, with that nobleman's last name and everything. Not that Habren, young though she was, wouldn't gossip about Anora every chance she got, anyway, but Anora was too old to encounter the preschool set and it wouldn't reach her ears. Often._

_Evidently the run of these thoughts through his mind reflected in and darkened Loghain's already thunderous expression, because Bryland began to fidget nervously and looked away. It was almost too bad - _almost_ - because Bryland really was what Loghain considered an all-right sort and if he were the type to actually cultivate such relationships (what few he counted himself as having all happened accidentally), they might actually have become friends. They did, after all, have a few things in common._

_Bryland quietly excused himself to Bryce Cousland and moved to stand on the other side of him, on the far side of Ranulf Wulffe, and Loghain saw that he may indeed not have been the source of the Arl of South Reach's sudden discomfort. Arl Rendon Howe, of Amaranthine, had come up from the back of the gallery to stand behind Bryland, and now stepped into the place he had occupied at Bryce Cousland's side. Long ago, Bryland and Howe had been friends, but that time was long past. The time when anybody, pretty much, had been Howe's friend was past. The only person who still seemed able to stomach the man was Cousland, and that perhaps more out of a sense of duty than warm feeling. Quite apart from being one of his most important sworn subjects, Howe was a man who had fought beside Cousland with unquestionable valor during the rebellion. Cousland was not a man who could let that service be forgotten, or allow an old friend to be completely bereft of kinship, regardless of how unpleasant that friend had become._

_Howe had a daughter, Loghain remembered suddenly, a pale, quiet little thing whose name he couldn't quite recall. Deirdre? Dahlia? Whatever it was, she seemed nice enough, what little he knew of her. Too young, though, to think about the possibility she could be a companion for his own child. Cousland had a little girl, too, if he remembered rightly, but he'd never met that child or heard much about her. She was supposed to be a bit of a rapscallion, from what little he had heard, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing depending on the child's intentions - Anora had certainly had moments when the term applied to her, as well. But she was, he thought, only about eleven or so. Still too young. Maybe he'd waited a little bit too long to start worrying that his daughter might be lonely, but now that her mother was passed away it was easier to notice that Anora didn't really seem to have any social life, per se. Or rather, she didn't seem to have anyone she cared to associate with beyond simply building political connections. Anora was very keen on politics, which he supposed was a good thing._

_And she didn't really seem to like children very much, and hadn't even when she was one. Anora gravitated naturally to adults and adult pursuits and conversations, she didn't have much common ground with other children. Maybe that was Loghain's fault, since he had no idea how one was meant to speak to a child and so he typically addressed his daughter, from her earliest days, in exactly the same way he would have addressed any grownup. When he taught her things, too, he taught her as if she were an adult being brought to a new skill set rather than a child with no skill set at all. It hadn't seemed the wrong way to go about it at the time, since she was so smart and picked things up so easily, but perhaps one thing she'd failed to learn was how to be a little girl. And now Anora's governess informed him gravely, in a tone that suggested he ought to know about all of this already, that although the betrothal meant she was, in essence, not on the market, Anora was now officially "out," whatever that meant, and having her first "season," which was also a completely foreign concept to him, but whatever else it meant it clearly meant that the time for her to be a little girl was past._

_Time flies, especially when you don't spend enough of it with your child._

_Loghain arrested his wandering thoughts at last, but not his wandering eyes. He continued to scan the audience for hidden assassins, since Maric was entirely too naïve about such things. His guardsmen were stationed much too far away to be of use in a tight situation, which was why Loghain habitually stood very near and slightly in front of the throne. If daggers or arrows started flying, he didn't intend to be more than one quick step away from putting himself between Maric and danger. It was not really the place he was supposed to stand, since it put him very much in the forefront of everyone's vision of the King. If he was to stand anywhere on the dais it was supposed to be _behind_ the throne. He didn't give a damn. Maric wasn't going to take a quarrel in the eye because some brainless Bann couldn't see him well enough._

_His eyes traveled over every face at least twice before landing momentarily on the face of Arl Howe again. Howe caught his look and smiled ingratiatingly, though his smile never looked like anything so much as a grimace. Howe was a greasy little toady, among other things, and Loghain knew the man didn't like him. He wasn't of the Amaranthine Howes, not directly - Arl Byron had died without issue. Rendon Howe's own father, Byron's brother Padric, disappeared shortly after the rebellion, apparently to join the Grey Wardens, although some said it was to escape the stigma of his father's execution when Harper's Ford was taken and old Tarleton Howe was hanged for treason. Maybe Howe would rather have had Harper's Ford, where he was raised, than Amaranthine, which made only little sense since Amaranthine was one of the most important holdings in the country, but for whatever reason he was quite bitter with his lot in life, and Loghain was reasonably certain it was not merely paranoia that told him Howe resented the fact that he, a peasant, had been raised above him. Not that he was the only one that resented it, of course. But even so, Howe went to a lot of effort to keep on Loghain's good side even though his lands were not under the auspices of Gwaren, and even occasioned to offer political advice from time to time, since he clearly recognized that Loghain wasn't exactly keen on the game. His motives could have been as relatively innocent as merely keeping out of the ire of a Teyrn and the King who was devoted to him, or he could be plotting something. Something told Loghain that Howe was always plotting something. But if he was careful, he could make good use of the man's advice._

_The session finally ended and Maric gestured Loghain to wrap up the proceedings for the day, which he did without the traditional closing speech but with a harsh shout that the show was over and everybody needed to get the hell out of the Landsmeet chamber before he started cracking skulls. Truthfully he was a disgrace to the kingdom as a Teyrn, but Maric was only amused by it. Maric, of course, was amused by pretty much everything._

_Loghain scowled until the last jack-in-office was gone, and then Maric kicked his feet up across the arm of the throne and slung an arm carelessly over the back of it. "Well, my friend - what did you think of today's session?" he asked, after he regained the powers of speech from a jaw-splitting yawn._

"_In all honesty, Maric, I don't remember much of it. Too busy making sure no one took advantage of your lax security."_

_Maric goggled at him, mouth agape. "What? You weren't paying attention? But it was so tense, so thrilling! Don't tell me you missed Bann Reynelda and Bann Talman arguing over Reynelda's cats!"_

_Loghain turned, just his head, to give Maric a gimlet eye. "Reynelda's cats?"_

_Maric nodded, delighted past expression. "Reynelda's cats. She has a good many cats, you know. As pets. More than thirty."_

"_Thirty cats."_

"_Thirty cats. Plus."_

_Loghain closed his eyes and squeezed them shut for a moment, then looked at Maric again. "And in what way do Reynelda's thirty cats impact Bann Talman's life so severely that the matter must be brought before the King and Landsmeet?"_

"_Well you see, Reynelda's bannric and Talman's bannric abut one another, and Reynelda's manor sits on the border of Talman's hunting green, and Reynelda lets her cats roam where they will. Talman says they have chased all the rabbits off his hunt, and wants compensation and the removal of the cats. Reynelda says the rabbits eat all the vegetables from her garden, for which she must keep the thirty cats, and wants compensation and the removal of the rabbits."_

_Loghain raised a hand to his brow, shook his head vigorously, and finally lowered himself to a seat on the edge of the dais, with a rattle and clank of armor. "Oh my bleeding piles, please tell me you're making this up."_

_Maric burst into laughter. "It's all true, I'm afraid. Surely you've noticed by now that Fereldens do _not_ settle matters between themselves? They're too damned prideful. So they drag it out, blow it out of proportion, and finally the problem looms so immense in their minds that they can see no recourse but to bring it to head in the Landsmeet, because they've lost all perspective. So what if there's an outbreak of plague in Oswin? Reynelda has too damned many cats!" The king slapped his thigh and howled laughter._

"_It's not really that funny, Maric," Loghain groaned. "There really _is_ an outbreak of plague in Oswin."_

"_Of course it's not funny, Loghain. It's terrible, and it's sad; the plague and the cats both. Or I should say, the fuss they're making over the cats is sad and terrible - I expect the cats themselves are fluffy and content, after eating all those rabbits. But above everything else it's absurd, and you have to laugh at the absurd, even when its terrible, because otherwise the world just doesn't make any sense."_

_Maric peered at him then, an earnest expression on his face that Loghain wasn't sure he'd ever seen before. "You should pay close attention to the Landsmeet, Loghain, and not just watch for assassins and bark at people to sit down, stand up, shut up, or leave. It's a good thing to know your neighbors, after all, and one thing you can say about all the foolishness, it serves as a marvelous salutary warning against the dangers of Ferelden pride."_


	58. Chapter 58

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **Loghain's muttered comment, "The only thing you can count on in this world is regret," is stolen directly from a lyric from "Peace on Earth," a song performed by one of my all-time favorites, Meat Loaf. If you look up the entire song you might be able to see why it _may _have inspired a future Loghain fic from me that is set in Orlais, during the time he is a Warden of Montsimmard. I don't know yet if it will be its own fic or merely a ficlet that will appear here as a Varric-written codex entry. And speaking of future fics and ficlets, I recently read what there is thus far of Herebedragons66's marvelous story, _Unshaken by the Darkness Book One_, and it may have inspired a fully-AU tale of Loghain and Elilia as they might have been had the Blight never occurred. Not that the Blight isn't going to occur in the story that inspired me (I have a horrible feeling that it's imminent), I just kind of wish it wouldn't, the whole relationship between Loghain and Rhianna has been too beautiful for me to want to see the blackness come in. The author actually made me mourn Maric, which never really happened before as the character didn't thrill me overmuch in _The Stolen Throne_ (and less so in _The Calling_). If you haven't found this story, do check it out.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Three: For Want of a Nail**

After the showdown, the Landsmeet proceeded almost normally. Loghain supposed he owed Vaughan something of a debt of thanks for speeding things up so nicely and getting the worst behind them, but it was a debt he'd sooner die than repay. And then, after interminable hours of nobles droning on in oaths and "old business," meaning disputes that hadn't been settled in the past year - or many years past, in a lot of cases - the session was over, called to a close by Chancellor Eamon when Alistair indicated he'd had enough for the day. Grateful past all expression, Loghain retired to his rooms, where Chatterly squired him out of the Archdemon armor. He would have to don it again first thing in the morning, for another endless session of "old business," and like as not they wouldn't even be able to broach the subject of "new business" - legitimately - until the day after. That was when Loghain would have to tell of what he'd been told by the Witch of the Wilds, to the entire Landsmeet rather than just Elilia, who was the only one who knew of it.

Elilia had been less concerned, for the moment he told her, at least, with the prospect of an Archdemon sire than the return of the witch. She'd clearly been expecting Flemeth's reemergence, but seemed anxious and even a touch insulted that it had been Loghain to whom the witch appeared.

"Don't let her anywhere near you, okay? She's not just an apostate, or even an abomination. I don't know for sure what she _is, _but she's bad news."

"Do you remember the Keeper of the Dalish clan? The one that's camped at the foot of the mountain on the Brecilian side?"

"Your…hem…_friend_'s clan?" she prevaricated, with a glance around the otherwise empty corridor for eavesdroppers. "Yes, I remember him."

"_He _wonders if she isn't Fen'Harel, who I take it is the Dalish version of old Kiveal the Trickster. Apparently she talks to the Dalish in their dreams at night, and tells them to do things for her from time to time. They go along with it so she doesn't get angry at them."

"In all honesty, I wouldn't be at all surprised if she was some sort of trickster god. Or something worse than a trickster."

"Myself, I was kind of half-convinced she might be this Archdemon _mother_ she spoke of. She didn't seem particularly pleased I asked about it, and said by killing this thing we'd have its gratitude, but probably not its assistance."

Elilia looked quizzical. "I'll grant you the possibility that she's some sort of dragon, all right, but if she were the Archdemon mother, why would she want the Archdemon father dead?"

"She wouldn't be the first wife who put a contract out on the old man," Loghain said darkly. Elilia didn't follow his phrasing for a moment. Then she laughed.

"Are you saying she hired us as dragon-slaying Antivan Crows? Humph; well, they did offer me a job, way back when. After I, uh…did some 'menial work' for them."

Loghain looked at her for a long moment, with the corners of his mouth pulled back in what could only be called an expression of chagrin. "You know what? I'm not even going to ask. I'm fairly certain I don't want to know."

Elilia chortled. "I'm fairly certain you don't, also."

Loghain cocked his head to one side, gazed off into the middle distance, and after a long cogitation he shook his shaggy locks and muttered, "The only thing you can count on in this world is regret."

Elilia took his chin in her hand, then, and pecked him on the cheek. "And death. And taxes. But mostly regret. That's life!"

That was shortly after they'd returned to the palace from the Fishwife's Cloister on the day he'd made his belated proposal. At the time, he'd experienced a considerable sensation of relief at having told her, as though a tremendous burden had been lifted off his shoulders. She hadn't laughed at him, even if she hadn't taken the threat the witch brought quite as seriously as the threat the witch represented. It was good to know that there was someone who would support him when the time came for him to make his claim to a doubtless skeptical nobility. But now that the moment of truth was more or less imminent, he did find himself dreading that revelation.

At least he had the promise of some good news being shared, or at least the suspicion. He hadn't seen his son-in-law much lately, but after Anora told him that Alistair seemed to be sitting on something important that made him very happy, he had taken the time to cast a critical eye on the boy. Well, _man_, he supposed, though it was awfully hard to make the adjustment in his thinking. Anora was right, of course; the King seemed to be withholding some information that made him look, in his own words, suspiciously like "the cat that ate the pigeon."

Or rabbit. Loghain was seized with the memory of another Landsmeet long ago where a matter of cats eating rabbits had amused King Maric very much. It would have amused Alistair too, no doubt. It was almost frightening, sometimes, how much like his father the boy - _man, _he reminded himself sternly - had become. Or always had been, either one.

Frightening…but mostly painful, in a bittersweet sort of way. Whatever else Maric had been, he had been Loghain's best friend, despite everything Loghain had done to destroy that. Sometimes it still shocked him, how much he missed the endless amiable chatter. Of course, chatter was something he wouldn't be lacking once Chatterly learned to speak proper Ferelden. He'd already begun to assay a few scattered words.

Dressed now in his fine Archdemon-leather doublet, Loghain told Chatterly in no uncertain terms to back away from the buttons. Damned things were even fussier than he'd expected, since there were two to be fastened each time, and each time one of them from awkwardly deep underneath the breastpiece, and he wouldn't stand for it. He buttoned the bottom two pair and left the rest undone. The leather, sturdy as it was, was supple enough to fold back so the high gorget didn't flap against the underside of his jaw. He hadn't been let in on the plan for the remainder of the evening, but it was almost certain he'd be drawn into something formal and unpleasant, probably at his daughter's behest.

Wanting only to get it over with, and to avoid being "invited" by a pompous herald, Loghain started out of his rooms, only to find his way blockaded by a trio of nobles who looked greatly like a well-dressed lynch mob. Arl Bryland, Arl Wulffe, and Bann Sigurd, all three of them some of Elilia's most vocal supporters, and two of them kinsman. Although, come to think of it, Sigurd was probably also a relation of some degree or other.

"Loghain," Bryland greeted, and the heaviness of his very colloquial South Reach accent indicated he'd had more than one drink before he'd dropped by. "Have any plans?"

Loghain quirked a brow, but that was the only change in his neutral expression. "Not that I'd been made aware of."

"Care to join us, then? We were just on our way to the Gnawed Noble for a drink."

On their way back to, more likely. Loghain only quirked his brow a bit higher. "I could use a drink."

The three men ceded just enough space for him to exit his chambers. "Right this way, then, Ser."

Their walk out of the palace was more a march, and the three men with him seemed a kind of honor guard, or more likely gaolers. Arl Bryland stood close by his right arm, Bann Sigurd close by his left, and Arl Wulffe was only about a pace behind him. If they attempted to turn the march into a frogmarch he was fairly certain he could fling off both of his relatively slightly-built flankers. Sturdy Arl Wulffe, however…not so much. The man was older - by quite a bit - but tougher than a month-old boar steak. In truth, though, Loghain wasn't particularly worried. There was almost something comforting about it: this was practically tradition. The Warning of the Groom. He had done very nearly the same thing with Cailan before he was married to Anora.

On the periphery of his senses he recognized that Champion had padded out of the rooms behind him, and was now about half a lunge behind Arl Wulffe and keeping pace. One corner of his thin mouth curved up in a slight smile. Thanks to the very public way they were going about it, he doubted that the mabari would be the last protector to follow him to the tavern. That, too, was almost traditional. Sometimes the kinsmen of the bride really, _really_ didn't like the groom, after all. Safeguards had to be in place to make certain they didn't take the expression of their displeasure too far, although in Ferelden the definition of "too far" was highly flexible.

They walked until they came to the Gnawed Noble. Sigurd held the door. Bryland nodded gravely to the tavern keeper, the wisened but evidently immortal Edwina, and she showed her august patrons to a good table at the back of the main room with a sight more courtesy than she was known to show less…_recognizable _guests. Loghain doubted very much that she recognized _him_, as he'd seldom set foot in the place. But then he remembered the cursed dwarves' cursed statue. Everybody in Denerim recognized him now, at least those who'd been able to beg, borrow, steal, or buy a trip out to the bay to gawp at the new landmarks.

He had not met King Bhelen Aeducan, who'd scampered back to Orzammar as quickly as he'd done showing off his great gift to the King and Queen thanks to how unnerving he found the open sky, but he'd left behind an open invitation for a visit to the royal court in the dwarven city. He supposed he would even have to accept it, at some point. He didn't look forward to it; he found the dark underground places as unnerving as the dwarves found the surface, thanks to having spent far too much unpleasant time there long ago. And not so long ago, since Elilia had dragged him along on a return trip through Ortan Thaig and almost half the rest of the distance he'd traveled with Maric, Rowan, and Katriel. He still didn't quite know her rationale behind that journey, either.

Not that she particularly required one. When Elilia Cousland wanted to go somewhere, she went, and Maker save the poor fool who stood in her way.

None of the men spoke until a serving girl came by with their drinks. "So, Loghain," Wulffe began, after a fortifying slug of something the tavern called "white rum" that looked and smelled suspiciously like illegal Wyvern's Ridge moonshine (and Loghain ought to recognize it, since the distill was secreted not ten miles from Gwaren Keep, on teyrn's property, no less). "You're looking well these days. Quite well, in fact. You seem almost to stand in defiance of the passage of time, although I suppose that's not too surprising. It was easy to think of you as much older than you really were, back in the days we all fought beside each other."

"I trust you've been keeping well, Wulffe?" Loghain asked politely, though in truth he wasn't certain whether what had just been said to him was a compliment or an insult. With Wulffe, you couldn't be entirely sure of exactly the same thing if he said to you "good morning." It was a trait the two men shared in common. That, and the fact that while everyone, even his enemies, called Loghain by his first name, no one at all called Arl Wulffe "Ranulf." Loghain wouldn't have been surprised to learn that his parents had called him "Wulffe."

Bryland didn't seem to be in the mood for the exchange of pleasantries. "Is it true you have…had her? That has been the rumor for some time," he said. Loghain didn't require clarification for this sudden question. He looked the Arl squarely in the eye.

"It is true."

"Does Fergus know?" In his heavy accent the Teyrn's name came out as "Fairgus."

"He does. Elilia told him quite shortly after the first time."

"And still he…_approves_ of you?"

"Of me? No, I shouldn't think so. But he seems willing to set that disapproval aside in favor of what his sister seems to want."

"_Seems _to want?" Sigurd pounced upon the phrasing like a cat upon a mouse. "Was this engagement coerced?"

Loghain spread his hands upon the tabletop. "I asked, she accepted. I believe Elilia holds some strong reservations about the institution of marriage in general, but she claims she is happy enough to give it a try with me." He paused thoughtfully. "Possibly because she expects I won't live very long, I'm not entirely certain."

"Her Majesty did not…push her to it?" Bryland asked. "Anora can be very…forceful."

Loghain laughed. "Do you think her more forceful than Elilia Cousland? I'll be sure to pass along the compliment, Leonas."

He paused to take a sip of whiskey, and his eye caught briefly on the occupants of a nearby table. Varric Tethras smiled and raised his tankard in salute. Loghain nodded back minutely. The cavalry was here, it seemed. Varric's presence suggested at the request of Elilia rather than Anora, since the dwarf but rarely took advantage of his open invitation to the palace. Loghain knew he would not need backup - these men were not ruffians, only concerned friends - but it was good to know it was there, regardless. Of course, knowing Elilia, she'd sent the dwarf and anyone else who was back there with him to make certain _he_ didn't hurt her kinsmen.

"If you want to know the truth, the answer is yes and no. Anora and Elilia discussed the matter between them before Elilia and I left for the bannorn, and Elilia was amenable to the idea but, as she had not spoken to me, didn't precisely say that it would happen. By the time we actually set out, we'd determined that we would marry, but we didn't tell Anora of our decision. When we got back to Denerim, however, we discovered a date had been set and our vows had been written, more or less. It made Elilia rather uncomfortable, having the decision wrested out of her hands like that, and hence I proposed properly, to let her know that despite my daughter's enthusiasm it _was _in her control, and to give her a chance to turn me down flat if that's what had to happen."

Wulffe sat back; evidently his few qualms had been satisfied. Sigurd and Bryland, however, still looked slightly doubtful.

"You understand, Loghain - we realize that Elilia is no delicate flower whose honor must be defended by chest-pounding males," Bryland said. "But she is our kinswoman, and while her reputation has not been…spotless, exactly…we wish to know that no harm will come to her from this. Of any kind."

"You want my assurance that I will treat her well."

"Exactly," Sigurd said.

Loghain thought long and hard, and apparently a bit too long and hard for Bryland and Sigurd, who grew restive across the table from him. Finally Loghain looked up, and his grey-blue eyes bored into theirs. "I don't really know what sort of assurance I can give you that would be sufficient. Certainly I will not beat her, I've never been in the way of that, and if I were to try I fear I would get the worst of it at any rate. I will not step around on her; I've never been in the way of that, either, and there is no one else in Thedas mad or marvelous enough to have me anyway. Will I be a surly ass toward her? Most likely, at least now and again. That's who I am, after all, though somehow she seems to bring out a better side of me. Will I become wrapped up in some duty or project or other and be inattentive toward her for wide stretches of time? Most likely. I will growl and cuss and go haring off after Orlesian spies without a moment's notice, and I daresay on occasion I will neglect to go to bed or even skip out on dinner. But then, I can't imagine Elilia won't cuss and tease and go running off to play with her werewolf friends and get wrapped up in something more interesting than I quite as often as I do. One thing I will never do, however, is forget how much I owe her, respect her, and love her. And I will do everything in my power to ensure she never forgets it, as well."

Loghain heard Varric's chesty chuckle from the nearby table. "And they say the Big Bull doesn't have a way with words."

Bryland sighed and sat back on his bench. "I don't honestly know whether I think this marriage is a good thing for Elilia or not," he said, "but I do believe you will treat her well. I will content myself with that. This is what Bryce seemed to want, after all…though I cannot say with any certainty that he would still want it now."

Loghain blinked. "Beg pardon?"

"You did stand with the man who murdered him, Loghain, even if you had no hand in it," Bryland said, as if _that_ were the part that needed explanation.

"What is this about Bryce Cousland having _wanted_ this?" Loghain demanded.

"There were…negotiations. You mean you didn't know?" Bryland looked baffled.

"Negotiations? With _whom, _if I might ask?"

"With His Majesty, of course," Bryland answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "King Maric."

"Maric wanted to marry Elilia Cousland?" Loghain asked, and it was his turn to be baffled. "I never heard a word about it."

Wulffe shook his head gravely. "No, Loghain - Maric wanted _you _to marry Elilia Cousland. Or more properly, Bryce wanted you to, and asked Maric to negotiate it. That was when the girl was sixteen, shortly after the, er…" He gestured to his own face, then broke into a broad grin that looked faintly frightening on his habitually grim features. "Can't honestly say that the tattoo didn't have something to do with Bryce's decision. Elilia was certainly a wild child; plenty of prospects, of course, being the Teyrn's daughter and all, but hard to imagine anyone who could…not 'reign her in,' exactly, Bryce never really wanted her to be tamed or to have her spirit broken, but…well…'domesticate her,' let us say. Even that may be too strong a term. She made it pretty damned clear that day that she wanted nothing to do with the Vaughan Kendalls and Thomas Howes of the world, and Bryce and Eleanor both had enough respect for their daughter's intelligence to take it seriously."

"Bryce wanted her to marry a man who would respect her strength and will and who could love her despite her rough edges, I think," Bryland said. "He wasn't that interested in making a political match for her, and leaving her to chafe under the restrictions of a husband who didn't understand her. You had been a widower for some time already at that point, and I think he felt you were exactly the kind of man who could appreciate the finer points of his daughter. King Maric, I believe, approved of the match because he felt you'd been too lonely for too long."

"He knew Elilia, a bit, as well," Wulffe said, "and I think she amused him a great deal. I know he certainly seemed amused when he spoke of the two of you matched. The phrase he used was 'clash of the titans,' if I recall a'rightly. I believe he expected her to shake a little of the gruff and grim out of you. Damned if I don't think she has done, too."

"Why was I never told?" Loghain said. He still felt decidedly gob-smacked.

Bryland, Wulffe, and Sigurd somehow contrived to share a glance between themselves. "Well, that was…shortly before he…" Sigurd began, then swallowed hard. "What I heard was he intended to broach the subject to you when he returned. I guess we all supposed that after things were settled, Bryce had brought it up to you himself."

When Maric returned. From the fateful sea voyage from which he never had. That's right; Elilia would have been about sixteen at the time. Dear sweet blessed Andraste. And then Loghain himself had spent a further two years searching for him, and three years after that, the Blight.

If it had worked out some other way, if Maric's ship hadn't been lost, if he'd arranged things before he left…Loghain might have been married to Elilia Cousland for more than a decade already. How many things would have been changed by that one alteration to history? Would they have been better, or would they have been worse? The question was moot, but it was persistent.

So was another question that probably didn't really matter any more than the other.

"Did Elilia know anything about it?" he asked. His voice sounded hoarse and strange to his own ears.

"I am uncertain," Bryland said. "If she did not speak of it to you, however, I should venture to guess not."

"I'm in the way of knowing _Fergus_ wasn't let in on it," Wulffe said. "I don't think Bryce wanted too many people to know until the matter was settled. A lot of people were vying for her hand, after all, tattoo or no, and some of them might have gotten…vindictive, if they knew they didn't stand a chance." He snorted. "Turns out Bryce could have saved himself the trouble. The most vindictive one of the bunch got him in the end, even though he was still being polite about the chances of accepting Howe's offer."

"He wanted a marriage between Elilia and his son, Thomas," Loghain said. "I would have thought he'd realized that wasn't going to happen after the tattoo incident. Urien got the hint, didn't he?" Bryland hemmed uncertainly.

"Bryce told me when Howe offered up Thomas in a marriage proposal, but…well…before everything went south, he said that the offer was…altered, somewhat. Bryce wasn't well pleased, either."

"Spill it, man. Altered how?"

"Howe wanted Elilia for himself," Bryland said. "Perhaps he decided to ask for her hand because he'd already decided to murder Bryce and Eleanor, and presumably Fergus and Oren as well, and hoped being married to Elilia would legitimize his claim to the teyrnir. I don't know. However it was, Bryce did not at all like the idea of his daughter married to that snake, or even being thought of in that way by him, even though he did his best to remain friends with Howe all those long years."He put his face in his hands. "I warned him that Rendon Howe was a poisoned soul. I believe he knew it. But what I do not think he could bring himself to believe was that he was dangerous. He just didn't like the idea that Elilia could end up wed to a man who had always been so openly critical of her rough and tumble ways."

Loghain sat back heavily on the bench. "I doubt it will make you feel any better, Bryland, but Bryce isn't the only one who seriously underestimated how slippery and dangerous Rendon Howe truly was."

Wulffe raised his glass of "white rum." "Well, here's to Elilia, then; without whom, that rat's ass might still be alive today, Maker forbid." Bryland gasped a startled laugh behind his hands, then dropped them and raised his own glass with a slightly wavery smile on his face.

"I second that."

Loghain eyed Wulffe's glass speculatively, then said, "Wulffe…is that what I think it is?"

Wulffe gave him a cautious look in response. "That depends on what you think about what you think it is, Loghain."

"If that is what I think it is, then I _think _I'll have a round myself," he said, and signaled the serving girl.


	59. Chapter 59

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**No Bull From the Big Bull, Volume One, by Varric Tethras, a Humble Storyteller**

**Excerpt: Sweets to the Sour**

_Anora never knocked before entering her father's study. Sudden noises startled him; not enough to make him jump or even twitch in any way anybody looking at him could notice, but enough to make him very grumpy. So she always merely opened the door quietly, and allowed her skirts to swish as she walked in so that he could easily identify her approach before she said any word of greeting. She also always let him do the greeting first._

_Nobody knew that Loghain Mac Tir had a gentle side better than his daughter, but when you were the daughter of the Hero of River Dane you learned exactly how to handle him to ensure he was always in the best possible mood._

_On this occasion, however, it was of no matter, as when she opened the door she discovered that King Maric was there. That in and of itself was not uncommon, though she hadn't realized he'd come to visit Gwaren House. That wasn't uncommon, either, in truth: Maric knew the back entrances and liked to drop in unannounced and as close to unnoticed by the Teyrn's servants as possible. So nothing about this was alarming…_

…_Except for the fact that her father was on the floor, bent over the desk, apparently in the grip of some powerful seizure. His shoulders shook, his head rolled from side to side, and one foot kicked at the faded cashamin rug spasmodically. All while Good King Maric sat collapsed in the big wingback armchair, laughing, with tears streaming down his face from mirth._

_Anora's stunned emotions vacillated between terror for her father's health and rage at the king's merriment until reason reasserted itself. It was almost certain that there were people in the world wicked or spiteful enough to find the picture of Loghain Mac Tir in dire circumstances hilariously funny, but Maric wasn't one of them. Her eyes alighted on a small tray of petits fours on the table and a degree of understanding dawned. Her father did not care for sweets, but…this?_

"_By the Maker's salty balls, that was ghastly!" Loghain gasped out. Anora repressed her own gasp at the language, which he did not typically use to that strength before her unless he absolutely could not restrain himself. But then, judging by the extremity of their reactions, it was quite possible neither man was yet aware of her presence. She cleared her throat._

_Maric opened his streaming eyes, they alighted upon her face, and he collapsed into an even stronger paroxysm of helpless laughter. In truth, he now seemed closer to signs of apoplectic seizure than her father. Loghain pulled himself off his knees and grabbed a decanter of what was supposedly Antivan gin but which Anora was morally certain was Wyvern's Ridge moonshine. The stuff was still illegal, thanks to the number of people who died from drinking it, but she knew her father had found the distill - and the moonshiners - and either cajoled or threatened them into selling only the finished product and not the fore shot, which was what was killing people. He had not made them conform to legal distillery standards, however. She sniffed at her father's rare breech from the word of law and order but understood the decision - it was damned good liquor._

_Loghain chased the taste of sweetcake out of his mouth with the potent potable and seemed to settle. Maric's fit passed as well, and he wiped his face with a monogrammed handkerchief that appeared to be the one Anora herself had embroidered for him years ago when her mother first began to teach her needlework. A drunken-looking M beside a rigidly upright T, both over top of a boldly-stitched KING (the G looked a lot like a broken O) because, as she had told her mother at the time, there were many men in Ferelden with the initials MT, and she didn't want anyone to mistake the King's handkerchief for theirs. Seeing it again after so long was rather touching, and she wasn't easily touched by such sentiments._

"_Hello, my dear. Sorry you had to see that," Maric said, once he'd calmed enough to speak. "One doesn't expect a reaction quite so severe when one coaxes a friend into trying a petit four."_

"_Blackmails, you mean," her father growled._

_Anora eyed the little cakes suspiciously. They appeared to be ordinary chocolate cakes, perhaps a bit darker and so just a bit richer than usual. That didn't sufficiently explain why her father appeared to be having uncontrolled spasms from the flavor. There was a ripe red raspberry on top of each - perhaps he had some aversion to them? There was a young man in Gwaren who couldn't eat shellfish without breaking out in the most terrible hives and swelling, which was quite the trial since shellfish was a major part of the native diet. But she'd known her father to eat raspberries in the past - the only sweet things he'd eat were fruits and berries, and only occasionally - so that didn't make a lot of sense, either._

"_Might I…try one?" Anora said, with more hesitation than she'd intended to show. She had never had a bad reaction to any food, and she had a far greater fondness for sweets than her sire._

"_You won't like it," Loghain predicted. Maric held out the tray._

"_By all means, dear. Don't pay any attention to your father - he doesn't know a good thing when he tastes it."_

_Anora picked up one of the cakes and bit into it, taking about half of the petite treat into her mouth. The hidden center of raspberry jelly touched her tongue, mingled with the heady sweetness of the indeed intensely rich chocolate, and the unexpected explosion of flavor rocked her. She didn't fall to the floor, but her eyes fluttered, her mouth twisted, her head jerked spasmodically, and for some reason her left leg stomped up and down on the floor very hard several times before she regained control of her physical reactions. It wasn't as severe as her father had experienced, perhaps, but she understood now exactly how he'd ended up on his knees bent over the desk._

"_Sweet mother mine, that _is_ ghastly," she said, almost out of breath._

"_What? Not you, too! Maker save you, child - you are your father's daughter," King Maric cried out in what sounded like genuine dismay tinged with his usual humor. He popped a petit four into his mouth entire and chewed with no apparent ill effects. Once he'd swallowed it he said, "Don't take this the wrong way, my girl - but after having seen your father eat roasted rat, and worse, at times during the Rebellion or just at the Gwaren feast day celebrations, watching his reaction to a simple dessert has led me to the conclusion that he is the single most bass-ackward man in Ferelden. Possibly all of Thedas."_

"_You didn't come here, Maric, just to torture my daughter and I with revolting food," Loghain said._

"_Well, torturing you was never the intention," Maric said, and sat back down comfortably, "but actually I did just come here with no particular motive in mind, except to spend an hour or so with two of my favorite people before I set sail in the morning."_

"_I still say I should be going with you," Loghain said._

"_Nonsense - someone has to run the country."_

"_There are plenty of people who'd be more than happy to do that. Your son and my daughter, for instance."_

_Anora had heard her father try to argue King Maric into taking him along on this embassy voyage before, but that last sentence perked her interest. She wouldn't at all mind a chance to test her political muscles out from under the steely gaze of her father. She was never going to know whether she was at all effective at the game until she could be sure people weren't merely being intimidated into complicity by those cold blue eyes, after all. "Father would be excellent protection, Your Majesty," she said, "and you do always seem to enjoy each others' company."_

_Maric chuckled. "Look out, Loghain: your daughter seems quite eager to be rid of you. I'd be scared, were I you."_

_Loghain stretched and settled himself into a chair. "I'd be eager to be rid of me, too, if I had to live with me underfoot all the time. Now that wiser heads have spoken, you've got to see I should go with you, right?"_

_Maric shook his head. "I'm sorry, my friend - Anora is correct, of course, you would be excellent protection and great company, and I'm certain that between them she and Cailan could manage Ferelden very nicely. But sea travel is dangerous. Ferelden can't risk losing both of us at a blow."_

"_Then you should stay and I should go, if its as dangerous as all that," Loghain said. Maric's response was a hearty guffaw._

"_Oh, I'd pay good money to see what sort of mess you'd make of a diplomatic mission like this, but Ferelden can't afford the price, I'm afraid. No, my friend, it must be me and not thee. Now, if you don't mind, I'd rather we spoke no more of the matter. You, I remember, were quite happy the one time we put out to sea together on the way to West Hill - running all over the ship and even climbing into the rigging, unless I imagined that part. But I was not at all fond of that or any other sea voyage I've been forced to make, and I should like very much to stop thinking about walking up that gangplank tomorrow."_

_Loghain nodded thoughtfully and poured a bit more "Antivan gin" into his glass, then poured two more glasses of the stuff. He handed one to Maric and the other to Anora, and raised his own. "Cheers, then," he said._

_Maric smiled and tipped his glass in salute. "Cheers." The three of them sipped their drinks, and Maric gagged on his. "Maker's breath, what distillery did this come from? I've never tasted Antivan gin like that before."_

_Loghain looked at his daughter from over the rim of his glass and said, "And he calls _our_ tastes bass-ackwards."_

_The evening ended on a light note, with two old friends - one so merry, the other so taciturn - who'd known each other well enough and long enough to get each other's humor despite how differently they approached it. Anora wasn't exactly on the inside of all of their inside jokes, but she didn't feel excluded in the slightest. It was a very pleasant interlude, and a fond memory to turn to in the dark days to come. When it was time for King Maric to return to the palace Loghain returned to his bottomless pile of petitions and request-for-hearings and Maric stood and offered Anora his arm._

"_See an old man to the door, my dear?" he asked._

_She smiled, stood, and slipped her arm through his. "Your Majesty, you're not old in the slightest."_

"_Oh, but I am, though. Older than Loghain, in fact, though your father has oft been mistaken for mine," he said, and preened his golden hair for comic effect. Anora chuckled politely at the joke, but she wouldn't have been at all surprised if it were true. Her father wasn't "old," either, but he often seemed very much older than the King._

_Maric peered down at her with a strange expression on his face, intent and wondering. "I've been meaning to ask you, my dear, and I do hope you won't take offense to the question: how would you react if your father were ever to remarry? To someone much younger than he? Younger even than you, perhaps?"_

_Anora's steps slowed as she pondered the possible meanings and motives behind the not-quite-innocent question. Did the King know something she hadn't been told as yet, or was this question a blind for something else entirely? He'd been a widower for quite some time now, after all, much longer than her father had, and there were many in the kingdom who wanted very much to see the King remarried. Anora was betrothed to his son, of course, but it wouldn't be the first time an unwed king took his heir's intended as his own. Anora was something of an idealist, like her father, but like her father she was also a staunch realist - a combination that was not at all impossible as some believed, merely intensely uncomfortable. She decided to assume the King was aware of some plan or proposal regarding her father and a younger lady of court to which she herself was not yet privy, since she was fond of the King but did not wish to have to be fond of him in quite that way._

"_That would, I suppose, depend upon the lady to whom he wed, Your Majesty, and whether or not they might be happy together," she said cautiously. "I dare say he is in need of companionship, but I wouldn't like it to be of an inappropriate nature."_

_King Maric chuckled and slipped an arm around her shoulders for a sidearm hug. "You have a politician's mind, my dear - must have gotten it from your mother, I suppose. Still, if it were a good match, it truly wouldn't make you upset? It hasn't been all that long since your mother passed, not in terms of grieving one's mother. I still grieve mine, and I think your father would say the same if you asked."_

_Yes, this definitely sounded as though the King were aware of plans for her father to marry. Something of a relief, although her eyes now pricked with tears at the thought of her mother. She took out her own handkerchief and dabbed them away._

"_I grieve, of course. And I suppose, as you say, I always shall. But father is still alive, and young and healthy enough to expect to live a long time after. I certainly don't wish him to spend the rest of his days alone and lonely. If he had a chance again for love I would want him to take it, no matter who she was. I would prefer, however, that he not be forced into an uncomfortable marriage of politics. That would not be good for him or for the lady he wed."_

"_Now there's a bit of the old Mac Tir policy of impolitic and occasionally brutal honesty. I hope, however, that you do not look upon your own impending vows as 'an uncomfortable marriage of politics?'"_

_Impolitic and occasionally brutal honesty worked for one Mac Tir but probably not so well for the other. Anora looked the King in the eye and told only half the truth. "Cailan is a dear, and I look forward to the day we marry."_

_It worked. The King's worried expression changed into a sunny smile, and he reached out to touch her cheek. "Glad to hear it, my dear. And never fear: I won't allow anything like a soulless political marriage to darken your father's future. There is a young lady I think might - _might_ - be exactly what he needs to cheer and distract him, and I think he might - _might _- be good for her as well, but I will be certain that I am entirely sure of both points before I allow anything to move forward. She is, after all, still quite young. The good thing is that she'll get over being 'quite young' much faster than Loghain will get over being 'slightly old,' and come to think of it that's also the pity. Why must our children grow so fast?"_

_His Majesty didn't seem to expect an answer to that question, so Anora didn't bother to look for one. She said farewell and good night to the King at the door, and the next morning she and her father were among the assembled at the docks to see him off on his long and dreaded voyage. Anora wasn't sure whether it was her imagination or not, but he already looked a bit green in the face just from standing on the pier beside the great ship._

_Maric shook Loghain's hand last before boarding the _Demelza_. "Goodbye, my friend," he said. Characteristically, her father did not return the farewell or wish the King a safe journey; he merely nodded and gave a slight grunt. Anora noticed, however, that he seemed a bit reluctant to relinquish his grip on the King's hand. Finally, and with some apparent effort, he loosed his fingers their tight grasp. Maric put a hand on Cailan's shoulder and gave Anora a final brave smile, and then he turned and walked up the gangplank. No one standing on the docks that day ever saw him again._

_Thoughts of the mystery girl to whom King Maric believed her father ought possibly wed were pushed forever from Anora's mind when the news reached Denerim that the _Demelza_ had vanished without a trace. The kingdom was thrown into an instant panic and a special Landsmeet was called immediately. The panic was not lessened in the slightest when at that Landsmeet it was proposed that Bryce Cousland, and not Cailan Theirin, take the throne now when it seemed so clear to everyone except her father, perhaps, that King Maric was dead and gone forever. Cailan wasn't ready for the throne, that was the argument put forth by Cousland's supporters, and Anora recognized the truth in that even as she resented it. Her father recognized it, too, but his reasons for opposing Cousland's claim so vehemently - with a mad light of pure rage in his eyes and spittle-flecked curses, in fact - boiled down to far more than knowing that Anora was ready even if Cailan never was. He refused to accept even the possibility that Maric was dead. No wreckage had been found; the ship simply hadn't made port where she was expected to. He would go and look for the damned thing - and the damned King - himself, personally, and drag him back by the scruff of the neck if it came to that. Or kill every bastard who stood between him and the commission of his duty to bring the King back alive, if that was the situation. He would not bring him back to a nation ruled in his absence by anyone other than his own son, and he'd beat the stuffing out of Bryce Cousland or any other fool who tried to take Maric's throne away. Politically inapposite, perhaps, but support for the tradition of the Theirin bloodline was stronger than fears for Cailan's unsuitability, and there were some few who agreed with Loghain's assessment that it was too early to say Maric was gone forever._

_And so Cailan was crowned, by an uncomfortably narrow vote, and in a month's time - rushed because Loghain could not be detained longer from setting out on his search, even though he probably should have had longer than that just to prepare for the voyage - Anora and Cailan were wed. Loghain set off to find Maric almost before the wedding toasts were finished, and while he sent back word occasionally of his frustratingly fruitless mission she did not see him again for two years. Not a particularly long time, perhaps, in comparison to forever, but long enough for her to have learned a few things in his absence: one; she had a taste and an aptitude for rule: two; Cailan had no interest in developing a taste or aptitude for rule, at least the workaday nature of it: three; Cailan had an interest and a taste for a lot of other things, few of which she could approve of. Perhaps it was his grief, but in his father's absence the young King seemed to have become amazingly self-centered. Or maybe he'd always been so, and she simply hadn't noticed thanks to the way he was always smiling and kind to everyone. That much at least didn't change. She resigned herself to taking the lead in the business side of their marriage and the back seat in every other aspect. She only hoped, when her father returned, that word of some of Cailan's "adventures" never reached his ears, or he'd surely murder him._

If_ her father returned. She didn't like to admit how worried she was about the possibility he would become as lost as poor King Maric. And her guilt, when she recalled how she'd actually encouraged the King to take her father along with him just so she could see what it was like to rule without his shoulders to stand on! She would never have wished to take the throne in such a way as this, but she offered thanks to the Maker and his blessed Bride that it was Maric who was gone and not her own father, despite the fact that, too, gave her a prickle of conscience. She was simply not ready to say _that_ forever goodbye._

_She learned one other thing in the two years Loghain searched the seas and islands and coasts for word or sign of the lost King: she learned to eat fruit-filled chocolate cakes without reaction. It might not seem tremendously important, but as Queen she could never be certain that some visiting dignitary or head of state would not offer her something traditional and cloying and her violent spasms could create an unfortunate diplomatic incident. Eventually she could eat even the sweetest, richest foods without causing a scene, but her father was right about one thing: she never did learn to like it._


	60. Chapter 60

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Four: Father of the Revolution**

After the drink, conversation turned to comparatively safer topics: children and grandchildren. Comparatively safer, because no man present didn't have some sore spot when it came to children at least. Wulffe, of course, had lost his two sons during the Blight. Sigurd's boy had been badly tortured by Howe. And Bryland, of course, had Habren. He hadn't noticed the spoilt little bitch his daughter was becoming until the Blight came knocking, and since she was only fifteen at the time he'd been given some hope she'd outgrow it, but she hadn't. If anything, she'd only gotten worse. Sigurd had told him then that "either she'll outgrow it, or you'll strangle her and dump her body in the river." Sometimes he wasn't sure how he'd managed not to.

"You're a lucky bastard, Loghain," he said, and he drank down another glass. He wasn't exactly drunk, but he was getting a damned good buzz on. "Your daughter turned out well."

"She did." Loghain took a deep swig of Wyvern's Ridge and tried not to think about the two daughters - and one son - who didn't get a chance to turn out at all.

"I have to say, I'm interested to see what the Next Wave will turn out like, though I suppose I won't live long enough to see the finished product," Wulffe said. He chuckled. "A child of Loghain Mac Tir and Elilia Cousland. You hear that odd rattling sound? That's Orlais, shaking in its boots."

"Speaking of Orlais, have you heard the latest rumor?" Sigurd said. "Seems they're having a spot of trouble with their peasantry."

"Tell on, man: what kind of trouble?" Wulffe said.

"The rebellion kind of trouble. Seems like there are pockets of revolution in the empire, and spreading."

"From whence do you get your information, Sigurd?" Bryland asked.

"Some Antivan traders I have contracts with. They didn't see the trouble firsthand, but they were in Orlais shortly before sailing into port here, and they claim its true. Evidently people there are getting fed up with the way the Chantry has been handling the mage situation, and the way the templars have become ever more uncontained. They _also_ say," Sigurd said, and shot a significant look at Loghain, "that for a couple of years recently there was a man traveling through the empire, killing Chevaliers and stirring up the natives. A 'Ferelden rabble-rouser,' according to them."

"Hmph. An astonishing coincidence, if true," he said, innocently.

"Mmm. Well, whoever he was, evidently he gave some very impassioned speeches about freedom and fair treatment, in the midst of killing all those Chevaliers all on his own, and a lot of Orlesians began to feel that perhaps they _did_ have a chance to break free of their tyranny. There have been some major skirmishes, and the Chevaliers haven't always come away what you would call 'unquestionably victorious.' Word is, the peasantry are using hit-and-run tactics not unlike what we used during the early days of Maric's rebellion."

"Smart of them. If they tried to take Chevaliers head-on they'd be slaughtered."

Sigurd never took his eyes off Loghain, who continued to act innocent. "The traders said that the peasants have given the Ferelden rabble-rouser a nickname. 'Father of the Revolution.'"

"That's not a very good nickname. I should think, if one were to 'father a revolution,' one might prefer something a little more inventive. Or at least tougher-sounding. Especially once you realize what it must sound like when you say it in Orlesian. In that language, your nickname could be 'the Disemboweler' and it would still sound weak and little-girlish."

Sigurd held that steady stare for a long heartbeat, then burst out laughing. "I don't know how in the name of the Void you managed it, Loghain, but if this revolution heats up it can only be a good thing for us. Perhaps the Empress will be so busy fighting her own subjects come spring she won't have time to spare another thought for Ferelden."

"If there's one thing I'm good for, it's stirring up trouble," Loghain said, not in a particularly happy or humorous way. "At least this time I may have put the talent to good use."

He called it a night then, and stood up to leave. Champion rose to her feet and panted, stumpy tail wagging, to show that she was happy to go, and happy she hadn't had to bite any of those other men. Loghain turned and saw that the Gnawed Noble was astonishingly full of people who might well have been sent by his daughter or his bride-to-be, to watch over him. In addition to Varric there was Laz and faithful Paragon, Captain Isabella who gave him a saucy wink when he caught her eye, Seanna, Champion Hawke and that odd tall Dalish woman she was in love with - the one he suspected was the "sweet blood mage" Varric had mentioned to Seanna after the Orlesian ambush on their way to the Blightlands, Champion Hawke's sister, Queen's Guard Ser Aveline and her husband Ser Donnic (assuredly sent by Anora), and that white-haired elf, Ser Fenris of the King's Guard (almost assuredly sent by Anora). Then again, perhaps they simply frequented this tavern; it was relatively close to the palace.

Except they all got up to leave at the same moment, right after he did, practically emptying the tavern. He chuckled, found Edwina, and paid up the tab for every one of them, including the two Arls and the Bann. "I don't know why the Hero was so worried; I thought they seemed rather nice to him," Champion Hawke's floaty-headed lover said.

"She wasn't, Daisy, she just wanted us here for insurance purposes," Varric assured her. "For him _and _forthem."


	61. Chapter 61

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Five: Commander in Chief**

There were no real surprises left as the Landsmeet proceeded. The banns of Dunlan and Dane's March argued over the exact placement of their abutting boundary lines - a feud that had lasted more than three generations already. Again the issue was not resolved to the satisfaction of either party. Bann Ceorlic III made a formal declaration of his intent to rebuild Lothering and submitted a request for labor assistance "when the issue of Orlais is settled," which was granted. Three banns and an Arl submitted petitions against the Guardian Statue depicting Loghain Mac Tir, and were soundly shut down with the inarguable fact that any defacement of the statue would render the harbor defense useless, and would seriously offend the King of Orzammar. A solid majority voted in favor of appointing Ser Cauthrien Landsman as Bann of Gwaren, which was also officially incorporated as a bannric for the first time. And Loghain Mac Tir stepped forward to present his bad news, which was not a surprise to two people in the room.

"Wait a moment - this man is not Teyrn-Anything of anywhere yet," Arl Vaughan protested, before Loghain had a chance to do more than request the floor. "He has no right to speak before this Landsmeet."

"Arl Vaughan, the bylaws of the Landsmeet say that any man or woman present, regardless of title or rank or ability to vote, may bring new business or raise disputes before us, and the only things about which you may _not_ raise disputes are the bylaws," Alistair said, in quite a tired voice. "Sit down and shut up."

Loghain tried again. "Your Majesties; Lords and Ladies, I have received…_intelligence_…that suggests there may be a great threat approaching Ferelden from the south."

"What sort of _intelligence? _And from _where?" _Arl Eamon asked. "Are you saying you have _spies, _Loghain?"

Loghain sighed. "Intelligence of the informative kind, Eamon, and no, I have no spies. The information was brought to me by a…disinterested third party."

"_What _disinterested third party, father?" Anora asked, curious.

Loghain hesitated, and looked over at Elilia, who nodded encouragement. "The Witch of the Wilds. Flemeth."

There was a noisy outburst from the floor. King Alistair called for order. "Your Majesties, the Witch of the Wilds is a legend - a fabrication!" Bann Franderel cried.

"The hell she is," Elilia said. "I met her. So did Loghain. So did King Alistair."

Kireani Hawke, behind the throne, content until now to observe and wonder whether this system of governance was better or worse than the one she'd observed in Kirkwall whereby nobles submitted endless request-for-hearings to the Viscount and were just as endlessly denied, spoke up for the first time all Landsmeet. "So did I."

The entire gallery looked at the Champion. "I saw her, too," Merrill, standing next to her, spoke up. Fortunately, just this once she seemed to realize not to say too much, and did not mention the fact that she had been part of the party that brought the witch back to "life."

"I met her, too," Aveline said. "Same time the Champion did. We wouldn't have made it out of the Wilds alive without the witch's help."

"That's a lot of witnesses to the contrary of your statement, Bann Franderel," Anora said. "And they include the King."

That made the haughty Bann subside into the back of the gallery once more. Anora returned her attention to Loghain. "Pray continue, father: what danger did the witch bring to you, other than herself?"

Loghain snorted. "An interesting turn of phrase, my dear, and in truth I'm not entirely sure she _didn't_ bring this danger upon us. It seems something has awakened, deep within the frozen wastes. A dragon that _fathers_ Old God-caliber dragons. While it lives, the Blights will never come to an end."

"So we kill it," Arl Wulffe said. "Shouldn't be that hard after the Archdemon, right? Male dragons are puny, comparatively."

Loghain shook his head. "Not this one, not according to the witch. She said its larger still than a High Dragon, and told me with more than a touch of amusement that it is essentially invulnerable, though she seemed to think I'd be able to think of a way to kill it regardless. 'That's what you do,' she said. She suggested that I muster the army against it, though she said it would do no good, nor would all the magic in Thedas, evidently. I suppose its all dragon-fodder while I 'think of something.' I don't think I need say I don't like the idea one bit, but I confess I don't know another way to deal with it without seeing the damned thing for myself, which is likely to be the last thing I ever do if I don't have backup."

"I stand with Loghain on this," Elilia said. "We need to face this creature and kill it, and it may come down to him and me jabbing our swords up its sinuses but just like when we faced the Archdemon, we're going to need army support. I know it's a lot to ask in the face of what we fear from the west, but Orlais isn't going to be bothering us for awhile, if at all."

Bann Sigurd stepped forward then. "It's true; Orlais may not be a threat to us much longer. I've had word that a peasant revolution is underway, and if that creates enough havoc then I'd wager Ferelden will be the last thing on the Empress' mind for the foreseeable future."

"Even if it is true there is rebellion in Orlais, that's no guarantee of anything," Arl Eamon said. "The Chevaliers are more than capable of putting down such things, with legions left over to plough over us."

"You mean you don't know if it's true there's rebellion or not, Eamon?" Bann Alfstanna asked. "You have…connections, after all."

Arl Eamon blushed and stammered. "Isolde hasn't had word from her family in years. I have no 'connections' with Orlais, Alfstanna, and I resent the implication."

Loghain held up his hands. "Enough; we have no time to debate this for centuries on end as it seems we must needs do with all else. It is nearly First Day; the witch indicated the dragon would begin to move into Ferelden around springtide. She suggested we make our move no later than first thaw, and I'm inclined not to argue with her on this matter."

"You have no rightful command over Ferelden armies, Loghain Mac Tir, and not even your marriage to the Teyrna can change that," Vaughan said.

"No, but I can," Alistair said. "And I shall. I hereby appoint Loghain Mac Tir General-in-Chief over _all _Ferelden's armies."

"Your Majesty, this is outrageous."

"Ferelden's armies are _my_ armies, Arl Vaughan," Alistair said, "and I am free to appoint whoever I feel is most worthy to the office of commander-in-chief. It has nothing to do with this dragon and everything to do with the fact that there is no one else I trust more to fulfill this duty."

Loghain could only stare at the king, stunned, both by the sudden appointment and the assurance that Alistair _trusted _him. So there was at least one surprise in the Landsmeet.


	62. Chapter 62

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Six: A Dog of Orlais**

The Landsmeet stretched into a fourth day, but thankfully it looked as though it would not drag out further than that. They'd gotten off quite easily, thanks in large part to Arl Vaughan's misguided attempt to throw everyone off balance at the outset which had only served to expedite the toughest sell of the entire session. On that fourth day, Warden Commander Pro Tempore Nathaniel Howe stepped forward to raise the proposition that Ferelden's Grey Wardens break free of the larger order. The look on his face as he took the floor, a smug feline smile, reminded Queen Anora very forcibly of the way old Arl Howe would smile, and that was not a good resemblance to bear, but she trusted Elilia's opinion that this man was nothing like his father.

Or at least, she trusted that opinion to a certain point. Anora reckoned she would remain wary of the Howe family for a good long time. She did think Elilia_ probably _had the proper measure of him, though.

"Your Majesties, Lords and Ladies, for some years the order of the Grey Wardens here in Ferelden has contemplated many serious issues brought to light by the events of the Fifth Blight and subsequent darkspawn conflicts. It has been a difficult decision to make, since we are all aware of the fact that, except for the wisdom of Good King Maric in allowing the Order to return to Ferelden after an exile of two hundred years, Ferelden would have fallen beneath the might of the Archdemon. But it seemed to us, as it must have appeared to many of you, as well, that the wider Order seems to have no great care for the fate of Ferelden. Whatever their reasons, they lifted not a finger to aid us during the Blight once we refused to allow Chevaliers to enter our borders with them, and have done little in the days since except complain about our esteemed former Warden Commander's tactics and her running of the Ferelden Order. Some weeks ago, we received word from Weisshaupt that Warden Commander Elilia was relieved of duty thanks to her 'interference' at the Battle of Sulcher, and she was told immediately to report to the First Warden far away in the Anderfels for 'disciplinary measures.' Evidently, at that point the First Warden had not yet received notification that Warden Elilia was a Warden no longer, and no longer subject to the commands of the Order - if it could be said that she ever was." He tipped Elilia a sly wink as he said this, and more than a few people laughed.

"As per her wishes, in the days since she left the Wardens I have been acting Commander of the Grey. Much has transpired in the Arling of Amaranthine lately, the details of which I will not trouble you with here. Since the dust has settled, temporarily at least, there has been no difficulty in passing news along to the capital, and I'm sure you're all apprised by now of what has happened and how it was handled. Suffice it to say, events have made it impossible for the Ferelden Order to remain neutral in the current political conflict, since being in charge of an important seaport and agricultural area gives us a certain duty to protect the inhabitants thereof. In conference with my Senior Wardens, we came to the joint decision that we will continue to do whatever is necessary to protect the interests of the country we serve, whether the wider Order frowns upon us or nay, since it seems fairly clear to us that we are, and have ever been, more or less on our own. To that end, we have reached a conclusion which I have been tasked to bring before this Landsmeet in the form of a proposal: the Ferelden Wardens seek to cut themselves from the chain of command of the Order of the Grey at Weisshaupt, and to exist within this nation as our own independent Ferelden Grey Wardens unbeholden to any foreign office."

"Do you have the necessary resources to do such a thing?" Bann Alfstanna inquired anxiously. "It may be hundreds of years before the next Blight, and Ferelden cannot be caught unprepared again; be it manpower or supply chains or even secrets, cutting ourselves off forever from the wider Order, attractive as the idea may be, may not be in our best interests in the long term."

"You make an excellent point, my Ladyship. It is true, there are potential drawbacks to withdrawing from the Order; however, given the fact we were left to our own devices in a time of Blight, and given some rather strange facts about the way the Wardens under the command of Warden Commander Duncan dealt with the preparations for that Blight, we believe we will leave ourselves in no worse position than we have ever been, and likely in far better stead. Thanks to Warden Commander Elilia's preparations, we believe we have all supplies and knowledge necessary to keep Ferelden safe for many ages to come. Manpower we may lack, but we believe we can overcome this difficulty, as well. If I might outline what we propose, Your Majesties?"

Alistair gave the nod, although his face had clouded over considerably when Nathaniel mentioned that he found something "strange" in the way Duncan prepared for the Blight and looked very much as if he wanted clarification on that point.

"First of all, we do not agree with the way in which the First Warden imposes a gag rule on vital Warden information regarding the exact function of the Grey Wardens during a Blight. This lack of information may very well have precipitated what happened at Ostagar. We do not believe that there is any danger in being a Warden, even in a time of calm, so great that foreknowledge of it would keep potential volunteers from the Joining. Vital information would always be shared with the leaders of this nation and her military, and recruits would be warned of exactly what they are getting into, and given the chance to change their minds, before the Joining ritual. Anyone who would back out is not someone we need.

"And on that note: the Rite of Conscription. This has been the primary means of bringing recruits to the Order, and we believe it is the wrong method to use. Conscripted soldiers cannot be made to believe in the cause for which they fight, and Wardens should be true believers. Many conscripts do, of course, come to follow their duty wholeheartedly, but that can never be guaranteed. Without Elilia's excellent eye for character, it would be impossible to know whether the man or woman we force into service is up to the challenge or merely a drain on resources." He tipped her another wink then, for he himself was one of those unwilling conscripts brought to a wholehearted embrace of his duty.

"We would keep the Rite of Conscription, for always there is a possibility that numbers would have to be made up in a hurry, such as in the case of another Blight - Maker forfend. But what we propose are regular recruitment drives, where interested young men and women willing to devote their lives to this higher purpose come to a training facility for testing. The promising ones would then be informed of all the duties and hazards of being a Grey Warden before the Joining. Elilia herself sent a proposal to this effect to the First Warden long ago, and was told in no uncertain terms that this was not the way the Order operated."

"That was back in the days when I was still trying to be a good little Warden," Elilia butted in, and there was laughter in the gallery once more.

"In any event, the Order of Ferelden would magnanimously cooperate with the Foreign Warden Order if aid was requested of us, but we would answer only to this nation and her sovereign King and Queen. And further, we would like to submit a proposal requesting that the Order be made independent of the rule of the arling of Amaranthine. The appointment was well-intentioned, and with Elilia in charge it was only too appropriate, but times have changed. The Wardens are not supposed to be a political body, though we are all well aware that this is not always, or even frequently, the case. The Ferelden Wardens, however, wish to be more a military arm of this nation, with the sworn duty to defend against darkspawn attack, and leave the politics to those who have the time and training for it. These were the proposals which myself and my Wardens would _like_ to have brought before you," Nathaniel finished.

"Would like to have brought? Did you not just do so, Warden Commander?" Anora asked.

"Alas, Your Majesty, I fear I am no longer entitled to bring proposals before this Landsmeet, as I would have been were I still acting as Warden Commander. You see, I have been relieved of that duty by the First Warden, who paid much honor to Ferelden by sending his very own Second to take charge of Amaranthine - and of Amaranthine's vote. Your Majesties, Lords and Ladies, may I present to you Second Warden Guillemot du Plesse, now Commander of the Grey in Ferelden and acting Arl of Amaranthine?"

A number of stone-faced individuals wearing the heraldry of the Grey Wardens - and some few wearing the Amaranthine bear - marched into the Landsmeet Chamber, and a stocky man carrying a mage's staff stepped out of the grim line of men and women, hauling on the arm of a man who did not look at all pleased to be there. A dwarven woman was at his back, and red-headed Oghren stood at his other arm. It could not be said that his entourage looked like followers; more like executioners. Or they did up until the moment that the dwarven woman caught sight of her former commander, and waved happily.

"Second Warden Guillemot; a pleasure, Ser," Alistair said, with a smile that looked more like a grimace. "I do hope you've found your stay here in Ferelden pleasant, thus far."

The Second Warden, bald-headed and wearing the most extraordinary curled moustache, short as most Orlesians but built like a bare-knuckles prizefighter, spat out a flurry of angry speech in his native tongue, the gist of which was that he had never been so insulted in his life, and Ferelden was a stinking cesspool filled with Dog Lord barbarians who deserved to be eaten by darkspawn. The mage, slightly taller but not so burly, cuffed him upside the head. "Respect. That's our King you're talking to."

Elilia whispered to Loghain. "You know, he doesn't look like a Guillemot to me. More like a bald eagle." He shushed her with mock exasperation.

"I'm afraid Second Warden Guillemot isn't best pleased with the hospitality we've shown him these past weeks since his arrival," Nathaniel said, and he managed to sound convincingly unhappy about it. "He has promised to register formal complaint against all of us at Weisshaupt. I suppose that means we'll all be cashiered, or whatever it is happens to Wardens who go rogue. Maybe they'll send some of those Anders assassins to dispense a bit of righteous justice on us, since the First Warden is essentially King of the Anderfels these days. However it comes to pass, it seems soon all of Ferelden's native Wardens will be replaced. Probably with Orlesians. They're so close and all, after all."

"Good bloody luck to 'em," Loghain snarled.

"It seems Warden Nathaniel has us over a barrel," Anora said, with a chuckle. "It seems we either ratify the proposal to separate from the Warden Order at large or lose our Wardens entirely."

"Let's expedite matters," Alistair said. "I say we lump the necessaries together and put it to a single vote. The proposal is as follows: Ferelden Wardens declare independence from Weisshaupt, and Ferelden officially appoints Senior Warden Nathaniel Howe as Commander of the Grey. Anyone care to second?"

"I second," Elilia said.

The vote carried and was passed by overwhelming majority, with no one even willing to abstain. Second Warden Guillemot du Plesse looked around him in clear disbelief. "Ferelden fools, you would doom your nation so? When the next Archdemon rises, your land will suffer unimaginable consequences."

"Actually, we can imagine quite well," Alistair said. "Not that long ago, if you remember, we suffered the unimaginable consequences of facing down a Blight with no outside aid and only two Wardens, one of whom was stupid and mean-spirited enough to drop his duties just because his fellow Warden recruited someone he didn't like. And then that _third_ Warden promptly got shipped off to Orlais, and I have to say, you're lucky your country still exists. My understanding is that he tore it up pretty damned good before he left, as it is. The Empress is only just now starting to feel the full consequences herself."

"The armies of Orlais will crush you, and your worthless kingdom, into the dirt," du Plesse snarled. Alistair stood up from his throne so suddenly, and with such an expression upon his face, that many in the gallery took an involuntary step back.

"I am well tired of being threatened," Alistair said, and his affable face was a storm cloud. "I am tired of constantly worrying what tomorrow might bring, what new danger my people must face. I am tired of being afraid. So here and now I say, enough is enough. I will not live in fear for my kingdom, my people, and my children any longer. Do the Wardens want to fight us? Does Orlais want to wage war against us? Bring. It. _On_. Ferelden will do what Ferelden does best, and fight to the last bloody breath. Perhaps I shall be remembered, like my Great-Grandfather King Brandel, as King Alistair the Defeated. It strikes me as a better name to bear throughout history than King Alistair the Capitulator. When you return to Weisshaupt, Second Warden Guillemot - which I suggest you do at the _earliest opportunity _- perhaps you could pass along that message for me."

The Wardens turned their charge around and began to march him out of the chamber, but a few steps and the mage hesitated. "Warden Velanna, if you could please?" he said, and an elven woman in the most remarkable skin robes stepped up to take his place at the Second Warden's arm. He turned and bowed low before the throne, which Alistair had just settled back into with a tired sigh.

"Your Majesty, forgive me - my name is Warden Bannistre, formerly of Kinloch Hold. I would like to say for myself what an honor it is to stand before you today, and I would like also to say a brief word, if I may, to Champion Hawke? That is she, is it not, at attention behind the throne?"

"Please, go ahead Warden Bannistre."

Hawke came forward and eyed the mage questioningly and a bit warily. He bowed low to the King and Queen, and then again to the Champion. "My Lady, I cannot begin to express my gratitude to you for everything you have done for mage-kind, sentiments I am sure many mages wish they had the opportunity to properly express. I…was very young when I was taken to the Circle, you understand, and remember very little about my life before, so perhaps it is only in my head that the resemblance exists, but it seems to me I recall a portrait of my older sister, who left our home before I was born, and she looked, I think, very much like you. Her name was Leandra. Leandra Amell."

Hawke's breath caught, then released. "My mother. I think you knew." Bannistre nodded solemnly and spread his arms in a curious gesture.

"A Circle mage learns not to think of his having any family," he said. "But that doesn't mean they simply cease to exist. It was rather a shock to the system, after so long a man with no ties to anyone, to realize that the woman who saved the Kirkwall Circle from Annulment was my own niece. I realize my name is nothing to you, but I simply wished you to know you have your uncle's thanks. And that he is proud of you."

"I realize you have duties to the Wardens that must take precedence, but perhaps we could find the time to speak together privately?" Hawke said. "My sister, Bethany, would also like a chance to meet you, I feel sure."

"There is nothing I would like more."

"There is to be a grand dinner ball tomorrow night, Warden Bannistre, to honor the engagement of my father to Teyrna Elilia, as well as the appointments of Teyrna Elilia and Bann Cauthrien. It would be a great compliment to the Teyrna, I am sure, as well as to your nieces if you were able to attend. I would take this moment to extend invitations to Warden Commander Nathaniel and the other Senior Wardens currently here in Denerim, as well," Anora said.

Loghain wasn't exactly sure why he was surprised to hear it. He lost the next few minutes of talk in sour contemplation of being put on display yet again. Maker's ass, surely even _Anora _was getting tired of feasts and festivals by this time?

Finally his attention was recaptured by the question of what to do about Nathaniel's proposal that the arling of Amaranthine be taken from the Wardens. The biggest issue was, of course, what to do with the Wardens if Vigil's Keep was no longer their home; Elilia had managed to recruit enough new Wardens over the years that a place so large was utterly necessary. Elilia, it seemed, had a possible solution.

"A long time ago, a merchant named Levi Dryden asked me if I might not find time to look into Soldier's Peak," she said. "What with one thing and another - Blights, Architects, et cetera - I didn't really get around to it and eventually it slipped my mind entirely. It was the Warden's home two hundred years ago, until the Order was thrown out of Ferelden by King Arland. If the place is still serviceable, it could be the Warden's home again. Doubtless it will need extensive renovations after so long, but parts of it may be livable now. It isn't that far from Vigil's Keep, really."

"But it raises the question: to whom should the arling of Amaranthine fall?" Anora asked, once many other details were hammered out. "Does anyone have a nomination?"

"I do, Your Majesty." Fergus Cousland stepped forward and gave a half-bow, half-salute. "I nominate Delilah Howe. She has served well over the portion of the arling I restored to her and her young son some years ago after Warden Nathaniel saved my life, and I believe she would make an exemplary arlessa."

He addressed the gallery at large. "I know that Rendon Howe did a terrible thing - no one here knows it better than my sister and I. But we must not forget the good and noble service this nation has had from the Howe family throughout history. Rendon Howe's own son, Thomas - though a man with many vices - fought bravely against the darkspawn at the battle of Denerim and gave up his life there. His son Nathaniel is now our Commander of the Grey, and has given Ferelden many years of good service as a Warden. His uncle, Arl Byron Howe, fought and died for the cause of Ferelden independence at the battle of White River, and Rendon Howe himself also gave good service to our nation in that time of war. I do not think it wise to forget that despite the evils he committed later. Delilah Howe has not the madness, or wickedness, or bitterness that drove her father to the sins of the Blight, and nor does her son Ianan. She is a careful, considerate, _compassionate_ administrator, and she is teaching her child to follow after."

"Anyone to second?" Alistair asked.

"I second," Arl Leonas Bryland said. "I know Delilah, and I know that what His Grace Teyrn Fergus says of her is true. She would be a fine Arlessa, and her son a fine Arl after her."

The nomination carried, and the vote passed - not without dissention, but by a comfortable margin regardless. And Delilah Howe, once so happy to be shut of her father's evil ways and even of the title she once bore, was suddenly an Arlessa. The Wardens were granted living quarters at Vigil's Keep until other arrangements - Soldiers Peak or otherwise - could be made. Then the King's seneschal read off the kingdom's accounts: the numbers of new recruits, the total number of standing soldiers, ready horses, equipment, stored food, laborers, and recruited apostate mages. The last number was almost astronomical, and King Alistair's face split in a boyish grin of sheer delight at the stunned looks of the nobles. There were now enough apostate mages in the ranks of Ferelden soldiery to make up an army all their own. Word had spread far and wide that Ferelden was a land of opportunity, and not just for laborers. Entire Circles, having thrown off their Chantry shackles, had made their way into the country in hopes of finding freedom in service.

But then the seneschal read off the treasury accounts, and it was clear that in this area at least, the kingdom was in serious trouble. Gold was going out by the bushel but very little was coming back in. Elilia came to the rescue with what struck her as a very obvious solution.

"The Dragonbone Wastes," she said, and caught a number of blank stares. "The ancient dragon burial grounds, southwest of Amaranthine. There's a bloody fortune in dragon bone just laying there; send teams in to collect it, and sell it abroad at Kirkwall and Cumberland and Llomeryn and anywhere else a decent price could be had. But send soldiers, too. It's a dangerous place, which is why I suppose it hasn't been done before."

"It would have to be a help, at the least," Loghain said. "Ferelden needs to put some gold back in its coffers in a hurry or we're going to be caught with our pants down one fine day. We're almost self-sufficient, but there's still a lot of things we need to trade for. Lyrium for all those mages, for instance. Since the _Chantry _certainly isn't going to sell us any, we'll have to get it off the black market, and that won't be cheap."

Alistair brought the Landsmeet to a close shortly thereafter, himself rather than delegating it to Chancellor Eamon. He had one last piece of news to impart. "I've had word from…well, what you might call a Nevarran ambassador," he said, with a chuckle. "Nevarra has decided to assist the Orlesian peasantry in their young revolution against the Empress and her Chevaliers. I don't think I need tell you that this assistance is nothing but excellent news for Ferelden. When the Frostback passes thaw, if our strength is great enough - and once this threat of an Archdemon-maker is dealt with - it may be possible for us to take the battle to the enemy, rather than sit and wait for them to strike at us. The ambassador told me that the King of Nevarra greatly looks forward to the day when his generals and ours stand across the battlefield from each other and crush Orlais between us. I'm not certain Ferelden will ever be in condition to launch such an ambitious campaign, but I don't see why we can't take a sally at them here and there. Jader, I think, has been an Orlesian holding quite long enough, and I look forward to making it a Ferelden city."

Loghain chuckled. "Now you're talking my language, Your Majesty."

"How did a Nevarran ambassador make it to Ferelden unannounced?" Anora asked.

"Well, he's kind of a bird."

"A…bird?" The queen blinked at her husband uncertainly.

"A Crow, in point of fact." And Alistair laughed uproariously. A slim blond figure stepped out of the shadows near the dais.

"_Cara mia,_ I am hurt - I come to Ferelden bearing grand news for your King, and discover that there is to be a wedding to which I have not received an invitation! My heart, it breaks from sorrow." And the Antivan assassin clapped a hand to his chest and bowed grandly before Elilia.

* * *

**A/N: **I realize I'm fudging the Amell origin a bit (or more than a bit). It was the only way the timelines worked out in my mind. It didn't exactly make sense to me to make his mother a relative, even a relatively close one, because it was hard to figure why a noble family would fall out of favor for having a mage child if it was a one-off situation (it doesn't make sense at all, really, since the de Launcet family didn't evidently suffer much for Emil).


	63. Chapter 63

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **"The Men of Elilia" calendar. I might have to do this, the thought is simply…stunning. This chapter is kind of like a badly-played game of Operation, I kept buzzing the sides with my goony sense of humor. I guess I was in a good mood last night. I certainly was by the time I was done.

**Chapter Fifty-Seven: Wine, Women, and Song**

"So you see, _Cara Mia_, when I heard that the Empress of Orlais was causing mischief for the homeland of my beloved Warden, I felt it behooved me to see what sort of mischief _I_ could cause for her. I briefly toyed with the notion of killing her in her bed, a dagger in the heart stuck through a concisely-worded note to the effect that these are the wages one can expect when one plays a game one has no mastery of, but I discarded that idea when it occurred to me that killing Celene would most likely only encourage animosity toward Ferelden. Though Celene was quite adept at killing off her own relatives in order to secure the throne, there is no shortage of Orlesian highborn who would be quite happy and honored to step into her place, and all of them have designs on Ferelden's ports and agriculture, many moreso even than she. So I had to come up with another plan.

"It was easy enough to see which way the wind was blowing in the Empire once the peasant classes began to rise against the Chevaliers. So I sneaked across the Orlais-Nevarra border - no easy task, that, and a story I should be most glad to relate to you sometime, but in private - and, with the help of a sheaf of warrants in my possession naming me a Ferelden ambassador in the service of the great Warden Cousland herself, it was simple enough to insinuate myself into the good graces of His Majesty. Forgery is such a useful skill, my dear, I do suggest you take it up when you have the opportunity. When I told him the rumors of revolution in Orlais were indeed true, he was quite amenable to the suggestion that it would be of tremendous benefit to Nevarra _and_ Ferelden were he to render assistance to the revolutionists. He began sneaking shipments of arms to them at once, and I have no doubt by this time he has managed to get a significant force of men into the country as well. He is a surprisingly resourceful man, considering he labors under the unfortunate disadvantage of not being Antivan."

Zevran paused to make inroads on the great feast laid out before him, and to refresh himself with mead. He was not finished relating his adventures, however.

"I decided to take the shortcut back to Ferelden, overland, in hopes of getting back before the snows began to fall in earnest. I failed spectacularly, but managed to make it through regardless. Crossing the border from Orlais was at the same time easier…and far, far more difficult than crossing into Nevarra had been. Burrowing my way through what must have been, at times, eighty feet of snow was one of the more unpleasant experiences in my life to date."

"You exaggerate, Zevran," Elilia said, with a tolerant smile. "It never snows more than twelve or thirteen feet a year in Ferelden."

"I may have been exaggerating somewhat, _mia bella_, but the places to which I refer were drifts, and I would be prepared to swear to Beloved Andraste that some were that deep. I tried, at first, to walk upon it, but discovered that I simply could not do so without sinking in up to my tender sweetmeats, and I did not wish for them to freeze off, so I took the only other route that was open to me - or rather, that I could open for myself. I confess, my previous winter spent in this charming land ill-prepared me for what I found here now. There was scarcely any snow at all that year."

"The darkspawn had something to do with that, I think," Elilia said. "As the black clouds built around the places they corrupted, it seemed nothing could penetrate - not snow nor rain nor sunlight. And it was very much colder than usual."

"I will take that as some comfort to the memory of my recent weeks as a snowbound tunnel rat," Zevran said politely. "When I finally reached Denerim I considered myself lucky to be in possession still of _most_ of my most important extremities. I did lose two toes to frostbite, however. The utter lack of cleared paths through the bannorn meant I had to tunnel almost all the way. And then I got lost, and found myself halfway to Gwaren before I realized I was headed in the wrong direction. I knew I shouldn't have taken that left turn at Amaranthine. Do you know, _cara mia_, that I now have a strong aversion to white? I once so enjoyed a peek of white here and there - a fluttery white nightgown, a smooth, white breast…alas, those days have gone, possibly forever."

"Zev, you know as well as I do that your aversion to white will mysteriously vanish the next time you have a chance to get a peek at a woman's breast."

Zevran considered this. "Ah, _mia bella_, this may indeed be true. I would ask if I might not peek at yours, just to see if you were correct, but I fear Lord Loghain would string me up by one or more of those parts I was most glad survived the long cold."

"He would," Loghain grunted, without looking up from his bowl of potato soup.

"So then you see it is not worth making the experiment. A pity, but I shall find someone safer with whom to test the theorem."

He turned reproachful eyes upon Elilia then, taking her somewhat by surprise. "This morning I saw you accompanied by a handsome young elf with blond hair who, I was fairly certain, was not myself. _Cara mia_, have I been eclipsed in your affections?"

Elilia smiled. "Never fear, Zev. That was Chatterly. _Loghain_ is Chatterly's lover."

"I suggest you retract that statement, Harpy," Loghain said.

Now Zevran turned his best puppy dog eyes upon Loghain. "Lord Loghain, I am, if anything, even more hurt than before. In all the time of our association you evinced not the slightest such interest in _me."_

"I _have _no such interest in you, Elf, nor have I ever, nor shall I ever. I have no such interest in any creature on this _earth_ other than the wicked witch sitting beside me."

"Ah, yes," Zevran said, with a blissful smile. "Beside, and undoubtedly occasionally astride, no? My friend, you are an incredibly fortunate man."

"I suppose no life is cheaper to an assassin than his _own," _Loghain said in clear threat.

"On the contrary, I hold my life to be very dear. But there is no greater thrill than dancing on the blade of a knife, is there?"

"You'll be dancing at the end of a _rope _if I have anything to say about it," Loghain retorted, but any venom in it was tinged with mitigating humor.

"You should have _nothing _to say about it, my friend, for no matter what I say you have won. The lady's heart is yours, and soon so too shall be her hand." Zevran sighed. "Oh, the things I could do with such a lovely hand."

Elilia put down her spoon and snapped her fingers. "All this innuendo has given me an epiphany. I should paint suggestive portraits of you, Zev, and you, Loghain, and all the other men in my life, and have them printed in a booklet for sale. Or no, wait - print them large over a page of a month of days, one plate per month. Fereldens will finally know what day of the month it is, and I'll make a veritable fortune!"

Zevran and Loghain both raised eyebrows, for slightly different reasons. "Cara mia, this is brilliant. And I, Zevran Arainai, will be famous throughout Thedas, no? Well, I already am, but all women who have only heard of my magnificence will come to know of it firsthand!"

"_All your other men?" _was Loghain's pithy remark.

"Well, darling, you would be the only one who was featured on _two_ months. Wintermarch and Haring. Because of course you are my first, last, and always."

"Nice save, my lovely," Zevran said, chuckling.

"Mm hm," Loghain said. He stood up from the banquet table then and kissed her upon the brow. "I know I'm not your first and I hope I'll not be your last, but I shall ever be yours always. I'd better not see any 'suggestive' paintings of me _anywhere, _let alone in print."

"Can you see why I'm marrying him? The juxtaposition of honeyed romance and gentlemanly threats was irresistible."

He held out a hand to her. "Come."

"My friend, I realize that you are a man used to having your commands obeyed, but I do hope you do not think it is so easy as that, or I predict grave difficulties for your marriage," Zevran said. "Perhaps I could give you a few pointers? I have found that placing your two fingers just so, and with your tongue making - "

Without ever taking his eyes off Elilia's face, Loghain reached out, grasped Zevran's cup of mead, and dumped it over his head. "Cool off, Elf, your imagination has carried you away." To Elilia he said again, "Come."

She placed her hand in his but looked at him with a laugh and a wrinkle of concern in her eyes. "If I come, where will I go?"

"This is our engagement party, with a few side-issues to celebrate as well. I want to dance with you."

"You. _Want_ to _dance?"_

"With you. Only with you. Although I suppose I shall have to offer a turn to Cauthrien, though if she's half as smart as I think she is she'll politely decline the honor. Anyone who will willingly dance with Old Wulffe, however, is clearly certifiable, and I have no pity nor mercy for such as she." He pulled her onto the floor and they revolved in time with the music and the other dancers.

"What about Anora?"

"Anora would never dance with Wulffe, she has too much respect for her feet."

"You know what I meant."

"If you insist, I will dance with Anora. Though I fear the offer will give the poor girl a brain storm."

"Surely you've danced with your daughter before."

"Once, at her wedding. Her _first_ wedding, that is to say. And when the dance was over I walked out the front door of the palace and boarded the _Fighting Ferelden_, to go look for Maric, so I can't say my attention was wholly upon the steps, and I doubt hers was, either."

"You can't mean to tell me that you never once danced with her when she was little. How did she learn to dance without standing on your shoes like any other girl?"

"Anora was not any other girl, Elilia Cousland, she was the daughter of a Teyrn. Rather like yourself, in fact. So tell me, Teyrn's daughter - how did _you_ learn to dance?"

"Well I, uh…I had a dance teacher."

"Uh huh, you had a dance teacher."

"_But _my father _still danced _with me."

"_Your _father _liked _to dance, and was good at it."

"Are you trying to tell me you _don't_ like to dance? Because you're doing a fairly good imitation of someone who does, right now."

He twirled her gracefully and brought her back in close to his body. "I like having you in my arms. That's slightly different, you know."

"Damn, when did you become so good at the romantic thing?" Elilia asked, and hoped she didn't look as flushed with heat as she felt. A lot of eyes were watching.

"I don't know. Sometime after you asked me to, what was it? 'Buck the midnight horse' with you in your tent? With tutoring like that, how could I fail to become romantic?"

"I suppose we can't sneak away from this party early, can we?"

"Not as early as I'd like. At least not if you are going to make me dance with my daughter."

"I am. But everybody is going to be watching for us to sneak away, so they'll have gossip for the next week about how we couldn't wait for our wedding night."

"Darling, they're already gossiping about that. And if you're truly fearful of their eyes watching us then I shall have to put blinders on you at our wedding dance. That is when they'll _really _be watching for us to leave early. You are fortunate that the old tradition of escorting the bride and groom to their bridal chamber - and staying grouped around the closed bed curtains for the show - has died out."

She cocked her head to one side and considered momentarily. "Actually I wouldn't mind that. Do the bed curtains _have_ to be closed?"

"If you're trying to make me blush, evil child, I should have you to know you're wasting your breath. My mind is at _least_ as filthy as yours, and has had considerably longer to wallow in it."

"Oh. So then you wouldn't blush if I told you about the wedding present Zevran gave me?"

He eyed her suspiciously. _"What _wedding present did the Elf give you?"

"Well at first I thought it was a harness for a carriage horse, but apparently it's for me."

He stopped stock still, a strange look transfixed to his face, and then he strode over to the table where Zevran still sat, dripping merrily in the wake of his dousing with a fresh cup of mead in front of him. Loghain grabbed it, and dumped it over his _own _head.

"Your imagination carried _me_ away," he explained.

Zevran chuckled. "I am glad these drinks are not on _my _tab, my friend."

Loghain returned to Elilia and drew her away from the main dance floor. "You were dead serious, weren't you? The Elf gave you some sort of…harness. I won't ask for a description, nor to I wish to know its purpose. I prefer to bask in the multitude of possibilities suggested. I suppose we'll have to get the fool a thank-you present."

"What do you have in mind?"

"I was thinking he might appreciate a pair of snowshoes."

"Why Loghain, how very thoughtful - assuming you thought to add insult to injury," Elilia said, laughing.

"I did."


	64. Chapter 64

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **I usually do not look things up on wikis, even official ones. My thoughts are typically that if it isn't in the game or the books then it isn't in canon. But to refresh my memory on a point that now has eluded my recollection entirely I went browsing through a most authoritative-looking Dragon Age wiki, the first one to come up when searching. What I was looking for was driven from my mind when I stumbled upon an entry claiming that Loghain had no last name until Maric gave him one, upon his rise to the nobility. Hogwash! He introduced himself to Rowan by first and last name in the outset of _The Stolen Throne_, and Sister Ailis said _"Gareth Mac Tir" _when she told Loghain's father he had no need to apologize to her for doing what he had to do to save Maric. Everyone ELSE in Ferelden has a last name, including City Elves and elven Circle Mages and even casteless dwarves. So I have no intention of looking anything else up on a wiki ever again.

* * *

**No Bull From the Big Bull, Volume One, by Varric Tethras, a Humble Storyteller**

**Excerpt: Wedding Day**

_He can't say he didn't see it coming._

_For quite some time, now - years, really - he'd had to ignore the words of idiotic noble-born fools, most of them barely loyal to their proper King in the first place, who expressed in no uncertain terms their dislike of the fact that their armies were led by a commoner, their fears that he would use his position of favor with the King to negotiate a marriage into the nobility himself._

_He could have saved them a great deal of worry and bother. He had no interest in becoming part of the ruling class of Ferelden through any means, and less still in marrying one of their daughters. Centuries of inbreeding made many girls of noble birth no great beauties and half-witted to boot, and there was only one woman he'd ever met, noble or otherwise, to whom he could honestly wish to unite himself._

_And she was spoken for, well and truly._

_But now he was getting married. Today. To a woman he didn't know from the Blessed Andraste herself. He felt rather sorry for the girl, actually. Who knew how she must feel, being pulled from her home to marry a man she didn't know in the slightest, either. He hoped she'd at least gotten fair warning about it. _He_ hadn't found out until that very morning._

_At least he'd been graciously allowed this chance to meet her, before the actual ceremony. To look into her eyes and let her know exactly why she was getting a raw deal. To apologize._

_And now here she is, petite and pretty and painfully young. He is not terribly old himself, not in years at least, but already he can't recall ever having been so young as this girl. She is smiling, her dark blue eyes shining, and Maker's breath, she doesn't fancy herself in _love _with him, does she? He thinks he recognizes her. Gwaren is small, after all; he's probably laid eyes on everyone in the village at least once, and he never forgets a face._

_She tips a brief curtsey. "Hello, Milord."_

"_I'm not a Lord," he says, uncomfortable in her presence. "I'm just a soldier."_

_She smiles a bit more warmly. "More than just a soldier."_

_He realizes then that she believes all the stories about Loghain the Hero, the man who knows neither pain nor fear, the man who never makes mistakes or betrays his friends. Or himself. He wonders just how quickly her illusions will be shattered. "There are…some things about me that you need to know," he says, and then he tells her everything. He tells her of his love for Rowan, of the many times he has failed himself and his King, of how utterly unworthy he is of love or respect. He tells her that he is a murderer, a death-bringer, a storm crow. And she…_

…_She laughs. She laughs like the sound of crystal bells tinkling in a wedding ceremony. And then she steps up to him, slips her arms around his neck, and kisses him._

"_You are awfully hard on yourself, Milord," she says. "I do not care what has gone before; you are a great man, and a good one, and I am very happy to be looking at a future with you. I will do everything I can to make you happy with me."_

_He has no defense against such tactics. The first tentative prickle of love twinges his heart, along with the first real taste of the fear that will soon become his. Fear of this dainty, pretty creature, with her warm eyes and open smile. Fear of the day when those eyes will be full of tears, because he put them there. He knows he is not worthy of her simple faith, and he knows one day he will shatter it. He vows to postpone that day as long as possible._

_And then the Chanter comes and scolds because he is not supposed to see the bride in her wedding gown - it is bad luck. Bad luck is the only sort of luck he has ever known, so he does not feel that he has put his marriage to this girl in any greater jeopardy by his error than it was already in._

_It is a great pity: he does not believe in faith that cannot be shaken. If he did, if he knew that there was nothing he could do, short perhaps of committing some great horrendous atrocity in her presence, then so much would be changed. He could be…happy. _If _he believed in faith._


	65. Chapter 65

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **I've been looking forward to this chapter since roughly chapter twenty, and maybe that's why I sort of blitzed my way through the preceding Varric entry. I might rewrite that later, though I vowed a long time ago not to edit my own fan fiction since I inevitably pick my stories to death when I start drafting.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Eight: Wedding Night**

Loghain waited outside the Chantry in the cold chill of the First Day afternoon, wearing his lion-fur cloak and the heavy velvet doublet Anora had stuffed him into - a sort of cream-white thing, with more gold braiding than an entire party of blonde-headed Ferelden ladies. It was very similar to one King Maric used to wear, which meant it had to be more suited to handsome, blond-headed Ferelden _men_, but whatever the Queen wanted. He bestrode his wedding gift from his daughter, a magnificent Avvari stallion with the unfortunate name of Gladiator. Even he, who had mounted such animals he dubbed "Glue Pot" and "Dog Meat," felt that to call so noble a creature by a name that called to mind slaves forced to fight each other for the amusement of their Magister overlords a grave indignity. He would have to think of something more suitable, and he supposed he would have to give the horse a name that would not denigrate his daughter's gift. The horse carried himself with the pride of a soldier. Perhaps "Commander" would be a good name?

Seeing the world from the back of so very tall a horse was a new experience for him. It was almost dizzying, in fact, so he was glad to have this time before the ceremony - and the post-ceremony wedding procession back to the palace - to acclimate.

"You look very natural up there, Ser."

He glanced down in some surprise into the upturned face of his old second, Ser Cauthrien. _Bann_ Cauthrien, actually, though he had a hard time making the adjustment to his thinking. "I wish it felt that way. I think I've got altitude sickness," he said.

She laughed. Actually laughed, and how long had it been since he'd heard that from her? Since before he inducted her into Maric's Shield, he was fairly certain. Nevertheless, she looked worried about something, almost sheepish.

"Her Majesty informed me of my proposed part in the ceremony this morning," she said. "I…can't imagine the Grand Cleric was pleased."

"I heard words from one of the Revered Mothers, but the Grand Cleric herself seemed to have nothing to say against it. Given that she has given tacit approval to Ferelden becoming an underground Free Mage state, I doubt she's much worried about offending the Divine these days."

He examined her closely. "That's not what's bothering you, is it? I'm sorry you were ambushed rather than asked; if you don't wish to stand for me then you do not have to. There simply isn't a man in Ferelden I'd rather see there, though I suppose it would be appeasing to the gossip-mongers if I had Teyrn Fergus in that place."

"No, Ser, it's not that…I mean, I'm honored, but… Do you really want _me_ to stand as your best man? I…I betrayed you, Ser."

"Oh really? When and how was this?" he asked, with one eyebrow elevated alarmingly. In truth, he knew exactly what she was talking about.

"I…turned from you. At the Landsmeet."

"You let the Warden in."

She nodded, and hung her head in shame. More than a decade, and still she beat herself up over this? Ha. She was more like him even than he'd thought.

"You did the right thing, Cauthrien. You acted according to your conscience. I have no patience with a Commander who would not."

"It was…the hardest thing I've ever done, Ser. I thought surely she would kill you if she managed to best you. I am happy that I was wrong. I doubt very much my pleas for her to show mercy had anything to do with her decision. She is a wise woman. Ferelden owes her for more than the defeat of the Blight, Ser - much more."

"Ha! No less than I. So, will you stand for me, or won't you?"

"I will, Ser, with pride, if you truly want me there."

"Then that's settled. Glad to have you, my dear." He reached down and offered her his hand. She took it and finally he won from her a grin.

"I still can't believe the Grand Cleric will allow a _woman_ to stand as Best Man."

He laughed and settled back into the saddle of his Bloody Big Horse. "Damn, I wish they'd hurry up. What are they waiting for, spring thaw?"

"My understanding, Ser, is a last-minute panic over decoration. Her Majesty must have everything just-so, you understand."

"All too well, your Ladyship." Cauthrien blushed and he grinned. "Get used to it, lass. You are now officially a member of Ferelden High Society, elevated above the hoi polloi. Dreadful, ain't it? Who the hell wants the company of Society?"

"If it gives me a chance to make a difference for the people of Ferelden, Ser, I'll put up with it."

"Good woman."

A harried-looking Chanter emerged and began letting the wedding party inside at last. "I'll show you to your places. Apologies for the delay, it has been…hectic."

Loghain dismounted from Bloody Big Horse and felt an instant's rush of vertigo from the drop out of the saddle. He grinned and patted the horse on the neck before allowing the stablehand to lead it away. Last time he felt so damned short he was standing next to a Qunari.

"Lord Loghain - this way, please."

He suffered himself to be led into the Denerim Chantry, the plain vestibule of which was currently bedecked with white roses made of stiffened silk. Leave it to Anora to manage roses in the dead of winter. He tried not to wonder how much the trumpery roses cost to make. At least they could probably be reused somewhere else.

Inside the Chantry proper more silk roses hung on the ends of the pews, in trailing sprays. A thick red carpet was laid down on the center aisle, and cylinders made up of bits of multi-colored glass had been placed around all the many candles of remembrance set about the statue of Andraste. They bathed the entire altar in an otherworldly light. The altar itself was draped with a shimmery golden fabric that _might _have been some sort of silk, or possibly satin. Anora would identify it for him if he were so foolish as to ask her, and no doubt treat him to a lengthy symposium on fabrics of all kinds. He wasn't quite courageous enough for that.

The lady herself bustled up to him; calm, brisk, efficient, and thoroughly in command. He submitted to her orders without making issue: this particular battlefield was one best suited to a golden-haired general in a velvet gown. He allowed someone to take his cloak into another chamber and Anora to chivvy him into position, with much picking over the exact hang of his doublet and the fall of his hair.

He stood by the altar at parade rest for a good long time while the Chanters tuned up in the loft and the guests found seats. Loghain could stand that way for hours on end without moving a muscle, but listening to the Chant of Light was not his favorite pastime. He supposed it wouldn't be so bad if it were ever actually _sung_, but instead the days-long scripture was incessantly _droned_, usually by the sort of high, piping voices - even the _male _voices - that he found very hard to listen to. By the time the Chanters finally silenced he was nearly asleep on his feet. He was brought back to full consciousness when the bell ringers began to ring in the bride with the clear voice of fine crystal.

"Maker's breath, she looks amazing," Cauthrien swore softly at his elbow. As he watched Elilia walk slowly up the aisle, he could not but agree. White was the traditional color for a winter bride's gown, but this one featured a front panel of dark crimson velvet and was trimmed in gold. The neckline and full sleeves were trimmed white rabbit fur, and her upswept hair was crowned with a golden tiara sparkling with deep red garnets. The gown's train trailed behind her at least twenty feet. Her six maidens of honor, dressed in becomingly simple white gowns, walked alongside it in solemn procession, carrying identical bouquets of silk flowers.

Loghain suspected the sight of those maidens of honor let Cauthrien understand why the Grand Cleric hadn't made issue out of her standing as Best Man. Of the six, two of the women were dwarves, and two were elves - and _both_ of the elves were mages, along with one of the humans. A female Best Man was the _least_ controversial part of this wedding. Actually, Loghain thought the effect rather aesthetic. Warden Sigrun and Laz Brosca, at the front of the double line, looked remarkably subdued considering their natural exuberance; Seanna and Warden Velanna (not entirely happy to be part of a Shemlen ceremony but cleverly manipulated into thinking of it as a chance to thumb her nose at the Chantry fools) looked lovely and demure in the middle, and the Hawke sisters bringing up the rear were night and day to each other but both looked well in their gowns. The three-tiered look of the ladies' heights in relation to each other seemed planned; in truth it was only that Elilia had few female associates, fewer still that were unmarried. And most of them were in Amaranthine.

As the bride drew nearer he could see plainly the pretty flush of color on her cheeks was not remotely cosmetic. She was…nervous. It was easy enough to imagine why. Certainly all eyes were upon her, and she was never comfortable being the center of _this_ kind of attention, though lately she should have had enough experience to get somewhat used to it.

But she'd never been the center of attention at a _wedding _before, and that had to be a different kind of unnerving given her long resistance to the idea of marriage. He offered a brief private prayer to the Maker that she would come to terms with it, and sooner rather than later. He did not intend to depend wholly upon the goodwill and intervention of a God who'd kept no faith in His own creation, however.

Elilia finally reached the altar and placed her hand upon it at the Grand Cleric's direction. Loghain placed his hand alongside hers, on top of the velvet ribbon that would be tied around both at the culmination of the joining ceremony.

The Grand Cleric spoke a few more stanzas from the Chant of Light. Loghain had no attention to give her, and had no idea which passages she chose; hopefully not the old gem about maleficar that seemed to be the only part of the Chant most priests knew. With Bethany Hawke, Seanna and Velanna present in the wedding party, that wouldn't go over at all well. That passage had no business in a wedding ceremony anyway, though he'd heard it used that way before. It was as though the Chantry couldn't miss an opportunity to inculcate the idea that mages were horrendous monsters.

But if it was spoken he paid no heed; he was too busy looking at his _literally _blushing bride. A single curled lock of hair hung in her face, whether deliberately or accidentally loosed from the hair clip that was a combination of the silver laurels of the Couslands and the golden wyvern of Gwaren. He resisted the strong urge to brush that curl out of her eyes, and the stronger urge to kiss her. To stand beside her for so long, unable to put his arm around her or even, at this point, to touch her, was a subtle torture.

At last the elderly Cleric cut to the chase, and he replied in the affirmative to all of her questions: I will, I shall, and ultimately, I do. His voice, as he spoke those words, was clear and strong enough to carry to the furthest reaches of the gallery. Elilia answered her questions in a breathless voice that barely carried as far as the sharp ears of the man standing next to her. He doubted very much that the gentle restriction of her corsets was responsible.

In any event the deed was done, and Anora, acting as Matron of Honor, gently clasped Elilia's wrist while Cauthrien, as Best Man, grasped Loghain's. At a nod from the Grand Cleric Cauthrien placed his hand over Elilia's, and Anora folded the velvet cloth over both. The knot was tied.

The great bronze bells high over the rectory at the back of the Chantry peeled out, and together Loghain and Elilia preceded the rest of the wedding party out into the day. Bloody Big Horse and the beautiful silver-gray palfrey intended for Elilia were ready and waiting, but here the procession received a check. Elilia took one look at the ladies' saddle on the horse proposed for her and balked.

"I've never ridden sidesaddle in my life. I have no idea how to ride that way."

Loghain was baffled that his detail-oriented daughter had neglected to discern whether or not Elilia would be able to ride a horse while wearing a gown before proposing that she do so. He inspected the saddle and realized that it did look a deucedly awkward way to ride, even without a ridiculously long train to deal with. He chewed his lower lip as he contemplated the long step up into the stirrups of his own horse. The party seemed to be at an impasse, and there was no way in hell he could manage it if he thought too hard about it, so he simply acted. He gathered up the long trailing skirt, hoisted his new wife into his arms, and had them both in the saddle of Bloody Big Horse before his doubts could cause the move to be ungraceful. The admiring gasps of lookers-on indicated he'd succeeded in making the difficult maneuver seem easy. He did spare a moment to wonder if this hadn't been Anora's plan all along. Elilia would have looked ludicrously oversize on the silver-gray mare anyway.

Elilia might not have been in the most comfortable position for riding but she settled in and seemed prepared to enjoy it. The heralds, carrying Gwaren and Highever banners, preceded them and they set out across the city to the palace. Lacking flower petals, the citizens of Denerim gathered to strew the path before them with handfuls of soft snow. Fortunately, no wag opted to attempt to start a snowball fight, at least not before the newlyweds and Their Majesties had well passed. It was almost certain that at some point the festivities would devolve to that stage.

"Nice horse," Elilia said, the first words she chose to speak after the fateful "I do." "What's his name?"

"If Anora asks, Commander," Loghain said.

Elilia raised an eyebrow. "And if she _doesn't_ ask?"

Loghain smiled. "Never you mind."

At the palace, of course, was the obligatory feast and dancing. Loghain hoped fervently that it would be the last such event for a good long while. In the morning, they and their accoutrement - including all the many people currently crashing at the royal palace because they were in some way retained, officially or unofficially, by one or the other of the pair - would move into Gwaren House, which had remained unoccupied for the last decade despite the fact that it had been at the disposal of King's Protector Cauthrien throughout her tenure. For the night, they would repair to Loghain's suite of rooms. But first came the traditional First Dance.

He led his bride onto the dance floor, and the musicians began to play. He was surprised to hear a very untraditional tune, one that he had never actually heard played before. Amused, he twirled Elilia around the floor in time to the rhythm.

"I've never heard this song before," Elilia said. "It's clear enough _you_ recognize it."

"It's one my father used to sing," he admitted. "And one I may have sung a time or two myself, in years past, never quite realizing I was doing it. Anora caught me at it several times when she was a girl."

"The music has a rather Antivan feel to it."

"Perhaps it even is Antivan. I've never heard it played upon an instrument before. Always felt quite Ferelden to me, and it's difficult to imagine my father would have known anything of Antiva or its folk music."

"What is the lyric?"

Loghain smiled, and quietly recited the words without singing them. "I'd rather be a sparrow than a snail. Yes, I would. If I could, I surely would. I'd rather be a hammer than a nail. Yes, I would. If I only could, I surely would. Away, I'd rather sail away, like a swan that's here and gone. A man gets tied up to the ground, he gives the world its saddest sound, its saddest sound."

He shook his head and laughed. "If the song _is_ Antivan, those probably aren't even the proper words to it. But that's the song Anora had in mind when she chose this music."

Other couples had taken the dance floor after the music started, including Champion Hawke and her Dalish lady friend. Merrill had come to a dead standstill when she overheard Loghain's brief recitation, and was now staring fixedly at him while Hawke urged her to finish the dance.

"Elder…pardon me…but where did you learn that song?" Merrill asked.

"My father used to sing it," Loghain said again.

Merrill cocked his head to one side, quizzically. "Was he Dalish, by any chance?"

If Loghain had been in the process of eating or drinking anything, he surely would have choked. As it was it took several false starts before he managed to say, "No, he wasn't."

Hawke was shaking her head. "Merrill, I swear, sometimes…"

Merrill did not seem to hear her. "Oh. Well then, did he have the acquaintance of many Dalish? It's just that those words are the Common translation of one of our most cherished songs, and I'm surprised you know them."

"Father…did know some Dalish, yes."

"Ah, that explains it, then," Merrill said, and smiling happily, allowed herself to be danced away by an apologetic Hawke.

"Keep a close eye on that one, Loghain," Elilia said, laughing. "One fine day she's going to discover your secret. She's got her head off in the clouds somewhere, but she's far, _far_ from dim."

"So I see."

Zevran sauntered up to them shortly after the dance, and proffered expansive congratulations and dropped pointed hints that they should put his wedding present to good use that night. Loghain snarled at him and Zevran laughed.

"You'll note, my friend, that I did not approach you with a drink in my hand. I learn my lessons well."

He was not the last to approach with congratulations and gentle - and not so gentle - teasing. After a thoroughly-drunken Oghren saluted them with a nearly-empty tankard of ale and growled that he wasn't terribly happy with the match because "the last sodding things you humans need to do is breed yourselves _taller," _Loghain and Elilia quietly slipped out before anyone else could approach. Enough was enough.

The first bright sky bursts, lyrium-blue, lit up the night sky in the direction of the harbor as they were uncoupling from that first pleasant private interlude. Loghain pulled on his trousers and a shirt, and Elilia wrapped herself in the frilly white nightgown she'd not had a chance to wear before. They both went to the window to watch the spectacle.

Loghain had seen this display many times over the years; rockets of lyrium sand and glitterdust alternated bright, sparkling bursts of blue and red. When the two substances were mixed together in a single rocket, the result was sometimes vaguely purple in color. But this time something was different. A bright flash of brilliant green went off, and then a starburst of brightest yellow. Orange, lavender, and white also appeared in rapid succession.

"Maker's breath, how on earth did they manage that?" Loghain asked.

Elilia chuckled. "If I had to hazard a guess, I would say it might have something to do with whatever it was Anora was discussing with Dworkin Glavonak when I recently caught them conferring. Dworkin loves experimenting with explosive substances, after all. If anyone could figure out how to make lyrium and glitterdust skyrockets burst in different colors, its him."

"Well, whoever is responsible, they do good work. I expect this lightshow will be the talk of the town for a month at least."

She pressed herself against his arm, so he slipped it around her shoulders and drew her close to his side. "Cold in that number, aren't you?" he asked. In point of fact the chill night air through the thin fabric was doing interesting things to her body that he could feel quite plainly.

"Little bit," she said, nonchalantly. He chuckled and turned to pull her into a tight embrace.

"We can't have that, now, can we?" he said, and proceeded to warm her in most pleasant fashion.

* * *

**A/N:** Loghain's "Dalish Song" is, of course, Simon and Garfunkel's lyrics to "El Condor Pasa (If I Could)" which was written for music written by Peruvian composer Daniel Alomia Robles in 1913, based upon traditional Peruvian folk music. The verse Loghain leaves out is the most Dalish part, of course: "I'd rather be a forest than a street/I'd rather feel the earth beneath my feet."


	66. Chapter 66

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **Not exactly relevant, but my cat just set himself on fire. Am I a terrible person for saying this is hilarious? Terrifying, yes, but hilarious. Now, before you start dialing the number for the ASPCA, allow me please to assure you that my cat is fine. He's a Maine Coon, and that means he's about fifteen pounds of cat, eleven pounds of which is fur. I don't even think he realized he was burning. I made the mistake of lighting a scented tea candle - in a deep bowl! - for "ambiance" while I was writing, and that's a mistake I won't make again. Sloppy Joe (the cat) walked up and somehow managed to stick his tail in the bowl. Fortunately, living in a house with animals, I was not stupid enough to be more than arm's length from the candle, and I reached out and grabbed the burning tail, extinguishing the flames, before the cat could panic and burn up entirely, taking the house along with him. I then put out the candle. The scent of blackened cat is not as toothsome as it sounds. This will simply have to go in the short list of spectacular saves made by Fumbles McShufflefoot, possibly even beating out the time I was washing dishes with my sister after a family occasion and managed to spin and snatch the falling golden anniversary-commemorative champagne flute from the air when she dropped it. The tail, since you asked, does not even appear burnt. He's mostly black, so the singe mark doesn't really show. But the really, REALLY hilarious/weird part? The song on the radio as I was coming home from work shortly prior to this was Alicia Keys' "Girl On Fire," and the song playing on my stereo AS IT HAPPENED was Meat Loaf's "Hot Patootie." I shit you not.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Nine: Inspection**

With all the many things to accomplish at the Landsmeet, and then the preparations for the wedding immediately after, and then the hoopla of moving into the old familiar confines of Gwaren House, Loghain didn't get a chance to visit the army training grounds for almost two weeks after being named Commander-in-Chief again. When he finally did so, he felt something he'd almost forgotten in the many years since he last held command over these men: _Belonging._ Now, he knew, he was truly home at last.

Not that much hadn't changed in that time. Most of the faces he saw as he made his inspection were new to him, men and women who were no more than terrified children clinging to their mothers' skirts when the darkspawn attacked. But though he had forgotten just how painfully, frighteningly _young _most soldiers were, there was little denying that these men and women _were _soldiers. _His_ soldiers. His men.

And by the Maker, did they look sloppy.

Loghain grinned, and ran his tongue over his teeth like a wolf smelling fresh meat. He'd have some real discipline beat into them soon enough.

He'd never done this with the Crown's regular army before, or even with his own regulars in Gwaren, only with the elite corps he called Maric's Shield. But Ferelden had had a long time to forget him, and while it was fairly obvious that most of these young people respected the _legend_ of Loghain Mac Tir, it was equally clear they needed to be taught to respect the _reality_.

"Who among you is man enough to challenge me?" he demanded. The young soldiers cast doubtful glances at each other, clearly not having expected this. Loghain knew just about what to expect, however, and wasn't surprised in the least when a young man, probably fresh from basic training, stepped forward with a noncommittal shrug.

"I'll give it a go, Ser," he said. He had a thick central bannorn accent, and the size and build of a particular type of freeholder Loghain knew well. He knew the type because he _was_ the type. But this burly young fellow looked as if he'd spent his entire life feeling like the biggest rooster in the cock fight, an impression basic probably hadn't knocked out of him. He would fight with brawn more than brain, and like as not he wasn't much for speed. He had just enough ambition - or arrogance - to step forward, but not much more.

"Draw your weapon, then, Private."

The big lad blinked uncertainly. "Erm…my _real_ weapon, Ser?"

Loghain nodded slowly. "This isn't a practice session, lad. Don't worry, I promise not to hurt you _too _badly."

The young man drew his weapon, a massive greathammer. He looked from it to his rather elderly General with clear doubt on his broad, plain face. Loghain drew his shield but left his sword sheathed for the time being. "Come on, then, lad - make your move."

The young man lumbered toward him. The blow he swung, had it landed, might well have been hard enough to break Loghain's arm even behind his stout shield, but he did not bother to block it. He merely sidestepped, and allowed the heavy weapon to pull the soldier off balance. Loghain drew his sword and struck him upside the back of the head - with the flat of the blade. The young man landed face-down in the dirt, unconscious, with a tremendous crash that fairly shook the earth. Loghain replaced sword and shield and turned to the assembled soldiers. "Anyone else care to have a go at it?"

He wasn't sure whether or not to expect anyone to step forward. In the Shield, he could always count on at least two of his young recruits making the attempt. The first would almost invariably be a young man like the bannorn farm boy he'd just bested; big and strong and looking to prove he was tougher than the rest. The second was just as invariably a young woman, and would approach in a very different spirit. Mostly these recruits didn't act as if they expected to win the battle, only that they needed to prove they had the strength and courage necessary to try. He respected that kind of bravery. He looked for that kind of bravery when he recruited. But this was a different situation. The Shield was mostly made up of veteran campaigners, pulled from the ranks of the regular army. These kids were mostly raw, and mostly not that driven.

So he was ever so slightly surprised when a quiet voice said, "I will try, Ser."

A small figure stepped forward. The voice was male, but for a moment Loghain was fooled into thinking it was a woman anyway, just by the size. Then he realized that it was an elf, and one he recognized. The young man from the alienage who shared his name. Despite the fact he was male, otherwise in all respects this was exactly what Loghain was used to seeing: a young recruit who didn't seek to prove dominance, merely to prove that he had just as much right to be here as anyone else. Loghain smiled and nodded at his young namesake. "Step forward. Have you no weapon?"

"I'll have one before the bout is over, Ser," Loghain Tabris said, boldly, but with a little quiver of doubt.

"We'll see. All right then, lad - let's tussle."

He drew his sword but left his shield in harness for the time being. He launched an attack that the young elf easily sidestepped, then blocked the man as he made an attempt for the knife at his belt. "Not _that _easily, my good man. Try harder," Loghain said, even as he swung again. The young man danced away and darted back in and out for another attempt, fast as lightning.

It took more than five minutes, but eventually Tabris managed at last to get his hands on Loghain's belt knife. He darted out of reach with it at the ready, and a glint of victory in his eye. If he accomplished no more than that in the entire match, he had already exceeded expectations by a fair distance.

"Well played, my lad. Now let's see what you can do with it," Loghain said, and readied his shield.

It turned into quite a session. Tabris was so fast that Loghain, fighting as he'd fought for so very long, had no chance of landing a blow on him, and so forced his body to remember the speed and agility of years long past. It was an exhilarating exercise, no less so to watch. Loghain had strength and reach to his advantage, and Tabris had raw speed, and it seemed almost an even match. Then Tabris managed to zip around behind Loghain, and drove the long knife in to position for a telling blow to the kidneys, though with the pommel rather than the point. Before it could land, however, Loghain's shield swung around and caught him under the arm, lifted him into the air, and slammed him down flat to the ground. Loghain held his sword point directly above Tabris' black eyes and grinned. "You yield?" he said. Unable to breathe beneath the heavy shield pressed down by the heavier man, Tabris nodded. Loghain got up and helped him to his feet.

"Your mother was a hell of a fighter, too," he said. "She taught you well. I know she'd be proud."

"Thank you, Ser." Tabris handed back the knife he'd taken.

Loghain's expression grew gravely contemplative, and he tapped the blade's pommel against the palm of his left hand. "There is some question in my mind, Private Tabris, as to exactly why a man in this army had no weapon. Perhaps one of my Captains would care to enlighten me?" He said the last in a loud voice in the direction of the line of officers.

For a moment no one seemed prepared to answer. Finally an older man, who Loghain recognized as a longtime officer named Fredricks, stepped forward and saluted. "My Lord General…elves are not permitted to bear arms in the city of Denerim."

"A prohibition that does not hold all the way to the army barracks," Loghain said. "Captain Fredricks, surely a man of your long service knows better than that?"

The man hung his head. "I am sorry, my Lord General. It shames me no end."

Loghain crossed over to where Chatterly stood, holding the many vellum pages upon which were written the various commanders and their companies. Loghain paged through them until he had Fredricks' roster.

"I see here, Captain, that Private Tabris isn't even in your command," he said. "Whose command is he under?"

Another Captain stepped forward then, not with any degree of confidence. Loghain recognized him as a man who hadn't been a commissioned officer at the time he left Ferelden. Withers? Wickers? He couldn't quite remember the name, but he was surprised to see that the man had risen so high in such a relatively brief span of time. He hadn't seemed particularly adept _or_ ambitious before.

"He's in my command, Lord General," the young Captain stammered out. "Captain Phillip Wilkins, Ser."

"Well, Captain Philip Wilkins, perhaps _you_ might be in a better position to explain this to me?"

The man stammered a bit more with a disgraceful lack of dignity. Finally he grinned nervously and gestured toward Tabris. "I mean, my Lord General, look at him. He's just a bleedin' knife-ear, not a _soldier."_

Loghain grabbed the rest of the pages from Chatterly's hands, paged through them until he found Wilkins' command unit, and marched over to wave the evidence beneath the fool's nose. "Is that his name on this paper? Do you mean to tell me that you have a _civilian_ in your unit? Well? Answer me, damn you - did the man enlist or didn't he?"

"He enlisted, Ser."

"Then he's a soldier, and will be treated as such. To that end he will be issued a weapon, same as any other man in this army. We train people to fight, not to stand around looking ornamental. And he will be treated exactly the same as any other man in this army, or I _will _know the reason why, and it had better be a damned sight better than 'he's a bleedin' knife-ear.' How much is he paid?"

"Er, I, ah…"

"Ten silvers a month, my Lord General," Captain Fredricks said quietly.

"Ten silvers. I believe the standard rate of pay for an enlisted man is _fifty_ silvers a month, is it not?"

"Yes, my Lord General."

Loghain rounded upon Captain Wilkins. "Was this wage _your _idea, Captain, or am I to be looking for a new paymaster?"

"Lord General, _I _didn't - "

"_Wilkins," _Fredricks interrupted. "I will not let you ruin the career of another soldier because you are too cowardly to tell the truth. _You _authorized that pay grade."

"I…I did, Lord General."

"I question exactly how someone like you managed to rise to Captain in only ten years, Wilkins, but it may be at _least _that long before you find yourself at that rank again. You can start working your way back up, _Lieutenant_, by getting me this man's service record up to this point. I want to know what he was paid, what he ought to have been paid, and where he has been assigned - _and_ whether he's received any proper training."

Lieutenant Philip Wilkins saluted smartly and scrambled to get the information. While he waited, Loghain debated the pros and cons to reinstating the Night Elves company. Finding a commanding officer would be difficult, and the reason he'd dissolved the company in the first place was that he didn't like the idea of a segregated army unit…though he'd lost the idealism necessary to believe he could ever have an integrated army. Maybe, if Tabris had the courage to see it through, this was the first step in that direction.

"Fredricks," Loghain barked. The Captain saluted.

"My Lord General?"

"Private Tabris is now under your command. If I may ask, why was he not under your command in the first place? Your connivance with Wilkins shows me you were aware of all of this from the first."

"My Lord General, I attempted to dissuade the young man from his intent to enlist. Captain Wilkins determined to sign him against my better judgment. I thought…I thought it would be better for him to be pushed out of service by bad and humiliating treatment, than for him to be pushed out through utterly brutal treatment. I thought that was all he had to look forward to if he were part of the regular army."

"Perhaps it is, but it's his choice whether or not its worth it to him, and your responsibility to see to it that the brutality doesn't happen. I'll be watching closely, Fredricks - don't let me down again."

Captain Fredricks bowed. "My Lord General."

Private Wilkins came back at last with the records from Tabris' service. Loghain paged through it and was unsurprised by what it detailed. "Shoveling shit in the stables. And not a single notation regarding weekend furlough. _Tabris."_

"Yes, Ser?"

"Have you been able to see your family at all in the past two months?"

"No, Ser. I've not been able to get word of them in a month, either. Every time I try to get a message to or from the alienage, my old friends and neighbors, they…they _duck_ me. I'm…worried, Ser."

"So too would I be. Go home lad, and see to your wife and child. Take the eight days' leave that ought to have been yours and henceforward, Captain Fredricks, this man will receive weekend liberty just the same as every other soldier."

"Understood, Lord General."

"Thank you, Lord General, Ser," Tabris said, with a dawning excitement and hope on his face. "M-May I leave now, Ser?"

"I believe that's what I said, Private, yes."

Tabris didn't wait for a second invitation. He lit out of the training yard like a bolt from a crossbow. "See to it that man is issued a proper weapon when - and _if_ - he returns, Captain. The rest of you, dismissed."

Loghain turned and walked out of the training yard, headed back to Gwaren House not far from the army facility. When he gained that safe haven, he found his quiet homelife in a state of turmoil. Papers were strewn all over the sitting room floor, and Elilia was crying stormily while she beat up a fainting couch.

"Dearest, what on earth is the matter?" Loghain asked, alarmed and already prepared to fight whatever monster needed slaying now.

"_Vaughan," _Elilia ground out through clenched teeth, and knowing what he knew of the Arl's propensities, Loghain was instantly enraged. But a half-second's reflection told him that what he initially surmised was highly unlikely. Elilia would have chewed Vaughan up and spit him out if he attempted anything with _her._

"What about Vaughan?" he said, warily, aware that there were others under his protection who were not so capable of defending themselves as his wife.

Elilia dried her eyes with the heel of her palm and gestured helplessly to the scattered papers. "I've had an agent buying up properties in the alienage," she confessed. "I now own roughly half the houses and buildings. _Guess who owns the other half?"_

She sniffled. "I knew he'd have property but I thought, one or two lots, maybe. I thought I could buy up the rest and pressure him to sell. I wanted to be able to make a difference there, to fix up the houses and make them livable, without the elves having to worry that their homes would then be sold to people who can afford higher rents. Now it turns out I've just wasted a lot of money. _Our_ money, now that we're married. I suppose you have a right to be angry with me."

"_Your _money, Elilia, and I can't see as its wasted. At worst, half the alienage no longer has to worry about the sudden evictions that are commonplace events there as their properties change hands. As for Vaughan, we'll find a way around him sooner or later. And if we can't go around, we'll go straight _through - _blade-first, if at all possible."

That bought a weak laugh from her. Loghain closed the sitting room door and bolted it, then crossed to her and took her in his arms. By the time he finished kissing away the frustrated tears that still streaked her face, she was calm. Shortly after he finished making love to her, she was asleep. He wrapped her in one of the quilts that lay folded in the chest near the hearth, carried her back to their bedroom, and tucked her into bed.

* * *

**A/N:** Nobody asked, but I want to clarify a point regarding property ownership in the alienage. I'm a little shaky on my medieval land ownership rules and regs but I'm fairly certain that, in a genuine feudal society, it would all belong to the Lord in charge, whether that in this case would be Arl Vaughan or the Crown is up for debate. But in the City Elf Origin, a family is being evicted because "The Human" who owned their property was going to turn it into storage - not "The Arl" or anything like that. And when thinking it over, the semi-democratic structure of Ferelden governance makes it perfectly logical to me to assume that private land ownership is possible, especially perhaps in the cities, where the rich merchants who can afford property live. Whether bannorn freeholders are able to purchase their land or merely "rent to own" is something I don't know from canon, but it seems to me likely that if they can afford to buy, they do.


	67. Chapter 67

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**No Bull From the Big Bull, Volume One, by Varric Tethras, a Humble Storyteller**

**Excerpt: Birth - and Death - of a Monster**

_He was born in the middle of Wintersend, and born again twelve years later at the start of Harvestmere. Neither birth was easy, for him or his mother. In fact, his second birth came as a result of his mother's death. The creature that was birthed by this violent event did not die for another fifty years._

_If the Orlesians had left his family alone, so much would have been different. More than likely, he would have lived out the rest of his life in quiet, comfortable obscurity as a freeholder, with little ambition beyond pulling in a decent harvest each year, and raising a family. Part of him survived that wanted simply that, but the rest was too badly damaged to make it a possibility. The cruelty of a social class that believed themselves chosen by the Maker and thus entitled to commit any sin they wished turned a young person who most likely would have grown into a quiet, hard-working man…into a monster._

_And the monster needed vengeance._

_Ironically enough it was his quiet, hard-working father, a man who knew the difference in vengeance and justice, who taught him to take vengeance when justice was denied, and more ironically still it was also his father who _denied_ him the ability to take vengeance. If Gareth Mac Tir were not himself killed, the need to release that rage that built and burned inside of him might have slowly faded away…or might eventually have caused an explosion that would have destroyed him._

_It almost did, anyway. Even once vengeance was taken there was no true justice to be had, not for the Mac Tirs at any rate, and with no justice there was no peace. With no peace, the monster could never die, the man could never truly live. The rage remained, only little faded with the passage of time - in truth, fed by the very vengeance it clamored for. A strange fact, known to few outside of dwarven Berserkers and the occasional Ash Warrior, but rage makes even the strongest-willed individual far more susceptible to hostile magic - to _blood_ magic - than usual. His natural resistance was high; rage made him weak. Easy prey._

_What saved him, back then? Was it the Landsmeet, where a remarkable young woman stood up to him before the entire country and demanded he stand with her or be shunted aside? In part, perhaps. Certainly he owed much to her for not taking her _own_ vengeance upon him. But the breaking - the _remaking_ - started before he ever met her face-to-face in Denerim. And it took far longer than the brief time he spent with her, cleaning up the mess he'd made, for the last vestige of the creature of pure rage to finally die, for him to find his strength again._

_That death started with the near-destruction of everything he'd ever fought to save, was facilitated by a decade forced to serve within the very heart of his hatred where he discovered that the bulk of Orlesians were not so very different to the bulk of Fereldens, and finally, finally came to pass when that remarkable young woman finally said the words, "I do."_

_In that moment, when their hands and lives were bound together in the eyes of family and the Maker, the monster died, and the man was born again. This third birthday was on the Annum of First Day. Though the man was and would always be a hot-tempered warrior, he was now what he had never been before: a warrior who had found peace._


	68. Chapter 68

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M, for graphic violence

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty: The Difference Between Vengeance and Justice**

Loghain "Lightning" Tabris raced through the streets of Denerim, causing more than one City Guardsman to suspect him of crime. None of them bothered to chase him very far, however, as they quickly discovered themselves far outpaced by the speedy young elf in the ancient splintmail armor.

Inside the alienage his speed did not much abate, but he did slow down just enough to wave to people he had known all his life, who appeared as surprised - and appalled - to see him as though he were resurrected from the dead. He raced to the door of the little run-down house he'd lived in all his life, the house he now shared with wife and daughter, and burst inside with rather more enthusiasm than thought. Door-bursters, in the alienage, were rarely met with welcoming smiles.

The woman kneading bread dough at the table near the door dove under it immediately upon his entrance. He caught only a flash of red hair, and it took a moment for his confused brain to register that it was his cousin.

"…Shianni?" he asked, to verify.

"Andraste's ass. Loghain? Damn, I ought to kick your behind. You scared the living daylights out of me."

She crawled out from under the table and dusted off her shabby dress. "Sorry, Cousin. I was just so happy to be home, I kind of forgot myself," Loghain said.

She still looked angry, but then Shianni usually did. "Yeah, well try and remember yourself from now on. So, did you get tired of the army life, or did the army life get tired of you?"

"Neither. Lord General Loghain gave me an eight-day furlough, to make up for the regular weekend liberty I wasn't allowed. He's going to make me a real soldier, Shianni - and get this; my pay will be_ fifty silvers a month! _Where's Nessiara? I can't wait to tell her the good news."

"Nessiara's in bed."

"In bed?" Loghain was instantly afraid. "Is she sick?"

"No, Stupid, she's not sick, she's - " Shianni took in his bewildered expression and some of the anger in her own was replaced with incredulity. "You mean all this time, and nobody _told _you? Damn, I should have known. Chicken-shit bastards. Look, Cousin - I tried to send word, I really did. Nessiara's been…hurt. Bad."

Loghain immediately pushed past his cousin to the sleeping area, behind a half-wall at the back of the single room. There he found his wife, asleep or perhaps unconscious, in bed with lumpy bandages wrapped around her face.

"It's been about a month already, so its not as bad as it looks," Shianni said quietly. "The poultice is for pain. The bastard broke the bones in her face. In her _face_. She gets tired out real easy, but she's going to be all right, you know? Just…maybe not quite as pretty as she used to be. Considering the price of _pretty, _maybe that's not such a bad thing."

Tears stung his eyes and he choked out, "Who did this to her?"

Shianni's laugh was a bitter one. "I'll give you three guesses, Cousin. By the Maker, I wish every day you'd killed that bastard years ago."

"A mistake I intend to rectify. Did he…hurt…Adaia?"

"No, thank all that's good and holy. She's with Valendrian right now, so her mother could rest. Listen, Cousin - you know I'd be the first to recommend stuffing Vaughan's head up his ass so far that he comes out his own mouth inside-out, but think of the consequences. Soris spent a whole year in a _dungeon_ last time. This time could be even worse, and you can't expect to get lucky enough to storm the Arl's estate a again, even if you could find someone crazy enough to help you. Nessiara needs you. _Adaia_ needs you. Just…count your blessings. Nessiara's alive, so it could have been a lot worse."

He passed an angry hand over his tightly-plaited hair. "Yeah, it could've. He could've raped and beaten my _daughter_, too. Next time, maybe he will. Shianni, there's not going to be a next time. Not this time."

"What are you going to do?" Shianni asked.

"I'm going to kill the bastard. Didn't I say that already?"

"But _how? _You don't even have a weapon, Soldier-Boy."

"I do, unless Father lied. Help me move this thing, Shianni."

He referred to a tall wardrobe, ancient and not in terribly good condition, that had for all of Shianni's recollection stood at the back of the room. She helped him trundle it aside, despite her doubts, and he knelt down and dug his fingers into a strange gouge in the floorboards. They came up with an ease that bespoke deliberation and he reached down into the cavity below and drew out a long oilskin-wrapped package. The rawhide knotted around it was ancient and brittle and broke easily. Loghain unfolded the oilskin and withdrew a gleaming ironbark dagger nearly two feet long, and wickedly sharp.

"Maker's breath, Loghain - your entire _family_ could be thrown into gaol if the Arl's city guard found that."

"They've never found it, though, have they? It was my mother's. Something she inherited from a comrade in the Night Elves, a Dalish who was killed in some skirmish or other. I've only seen it once before, when I was very small - not long before Mother was killed, actually. She said its name was the Fang of Fen'Harel."

"It'll be called the Blade of Getting Your Ass Killed, Cousin. Please, don't do this."

"How many times does this have to happen, Shianni? You, of all people, should want this."

"Of course I want Vaughan dead, Cousin - but I don't want _you_ dead, and I don't want the alienage to suffer for _your_ vengeance. Loghain, they raided the orphanage. The _orphanage_. They used your actions as an excuse to kill little _children."_

"I won't let that happen this time."

"How are you going to stop it? If the Shems want to hurt us they don't mess around."

"I'll stand for what I do. I'll go to Lord Loghain and confess. I don't think he'd let anyone else pay for my crimes."

"Would you listen to yourself? Loghain is the one who sold our people to the Tevinters! And even if you're right and he _does _make it so that the rest of us aren't punished, that still leaves _you_ swinging on the gallows. I know you want to protect Adaia but you can't do that if you're _dead, _now can you?"

Shianni's voice rose both in pitch and volume, and a stir behind them told that Nessiara awakened. Her voice was muffled, strangled by the bandages.

"Shianni? Who are you talking to?"

Loghain stowed the knife in his belt and went to kneel by the bedside. He helped her sit up with an arm around her shoulders. His silence, as he searched for something - anything - to say that would not be laughably inconsequential or otherwise inadequate, must have been unnerving, but she gave no sign of it. Indeed, her own silence, coupled with the grave, almost-emotionless expression on what was visible of her face, was unsettling in its own right.

Unable to take it any longer, Loghain reached up and, fearful of hurting her injuries, gently touched her stringy, unwashed hair. "I'm going to kill him," he said, as if in answer to a question left unasked. Nessiara merely nodded as if she'd known that beforehand, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him - just a light brush of the lips against his cheek. Then, weary, she lay back down and closed her eyes.

"Andraste's ass. We're _all_ going to die," Shianni groaned.

* * *

A creature like Vaughan was rarely hard to track. Even someone like Loghain, who'd never been hunting once in his life, could easily pick up his trail. For whatever reason he'd been avoiding the alienage almost altogether for the last month or so, but it was well-known around town that the Arl had conceived a liking for a particular "girl" at the Pearl brothel. A man of his station could, of course, have the prostitute brought to his estate, but for whatever reason the man seemed to prefer to bring his business to the young woman's place of employment, perhaps liking the "anything goes" attitude of the place. Though many elves worked there few were well-to-do enough to be customers, but the place's proximity to the alienage meant that an elf could loiter in the area, weapon carefully concealed, without raising comment.

He didn't even have that long to wait. Within two hours, the Arl came up to the doors of the pleasure palace, forced his guard to retreat to a "respectful distance" with a torrent of verbal abuse, and went inside. Loghain went around to the back, where a tradesman's entrance was poorly watched, and slipped quietly into the brothel. He waylaid the Arl on his way to the back rooms with his inamorata and pressed the cold blade of the Fang of Fen'Harel against his throat. "Make a sound and you're dead," he said in a harsh whisper. The whore, an elf who knew how to look after herself, raised both hands to show she had no particular interest in the affair and disappeared into one of the rooms.

It was surprisingly easy to drag the frightened nobleman out the back of the whorehouse and to the alienage. Though he had several stone on Loghain in weight, and was a trained duelist, the wicked sharp blade at his throat always pressing in just barely too light to cut kept the coward's instinct for self-preservation in cooperation-mode all the way back to the Vhenadahl, where Loghain pushed him to the ground and perched himself as heavily as possible in the center of his back. He raised the blade high over his head…

"That will be enough of that, Private Tabris."

* * *

Funny just how normal unbelievable coincidence could come to seem. Had it not been for the fact that he'd found his wife in tears over the failure of her plans for the alienage, Loghain Mac Tir would never have visited the place that day - or likely ever again, preferring to leave the elves in peace without his presence and relying upon trusted agents to keep an eye upon the situation there for him. But because Arl Vaughan frustrated Elilia's hopes to save the place, and after he'd tucked her into bed after their romantic interlude, he found himself compelled to go there and check the place out for himself, to see if he could think of some way around her problem. Entering from the opposite end of the walled neighborhood from his elven namesake and the frightened captive he held, he reached the center of the community at almost the exact same moment.

"That will be enough of that, Private Tabris," he said, when he saw the elf draw back for the killing blow. The young man flinched from the command of his voice. "I said put it down, lad."

With a grimace that bespoke his frustration, Loghain Tabris dropped the blade onto the ground by the trunk of the great tree. He did not, however, remove himself from the Arl's person. Loghain, after all, hadn't told him he had to, and he was unwilling to give up his revenge just yet.

Loghain stepped closer and stopped still some few feet away, and stood with his arms crossed over his chest. "Perhaps my eyes are failing, but it looks to me very much as though you were about to murder the Arl of Denerim, soldier. Not that I don't understand the desire to do so, but there are consequences to that kind of thing, you know, and fairly severe ones. Mind telling me exactly what pushed you to attempt this expediency, young man?"

"This bastard raped and beat my wife. Maybe _your kind _don't consider it a crime when an elven woman gets abused."

"Easy, lad, and don't go assuming you know everything there is to know about _my kind_. I'd wager you aren't even fully apprised of what _kind_ mine is. I understand you want vengeance, and I understand you want to protect your wife…and your daughter, too, if I recall correctly that you have one. I'd do the same thing in your shoes, believe me - and I _have_ done, more than once. But I have to stop you all the same. You are correct; elves have no protection under the laws of Denerim by which they are supposed to abide. But _I'm_ not a representative of the governance of this city. By the laws of the Crown, the abuse of an elven woman is every bit the crime as the abuse of a human woman."

"Even when committed by a nobleman?"

"Some might disagree with me, but _I_ say so. Revenge won't solve anything, lad, and you can trust me on that. Let justice do for you what it can. It won't make what happened any better, but at least you won't have to suffer the consequences of vengeance, which I think if you'll look at the situation with a calmer head you'll realize won't affect _only_ yourself."

Tabris hesitated, but said, "What justice will an elf find in this city, whether or not the Crown tries the case? Vaughan has too many powerful cronies."

"My wife bestowed upon me the right of High Justice when we wed," Loghain said. _"I _will try the case. Right here and now, in fact. Leave your prisoner with me, lad, and gather your elders and any witnesses you can find to testify. We'll have a proper trial, and if you can prove to me that Vaughan Kendalls has done everything you say he's done, I'll sentence him to the proper punishment for his crimes. It may not be quite as satisfying, in the short-term, as killing the bastard, but at least it won't come back to bite you in the ass later."


	69. Chapter 69

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M, for graphic violence

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-One: The Difference Between Vengeance and Justice, Part Two**

"Is he gone? By the Maker, Loghain - I am certainly glad to see you. Quickly, help me up so we can get out of here. My guard will take care of this murderous knife-ear."

Silence, as oppressive as the heavy hand that remained, pressing down, on the back of Vaughan's neck.

"Listen, I don't know what you're playing at, but this has gone quite far enough. Now let me _up."_

"I told you what would happen, Vaughan, if I found out you were doing what you oughtn't here in the alienage."

"What? You can't be serious. You are not going through with this ludicrous trial business - it's _farcical."_

"If you think justice is farcical, Kendalls, then that explains exactly how you got to this place."

"This is outrageous! I demand you release me at once!"

"When I heard cases in Gwaren I allowed those on trial the right to maintain their silence. I suggest you exercise that right yourself. Aside from the _very real _possibility that what you say might influence my personal opinion of you, which I'm already struggling to set aside in the interests of unbiased judgment, I'm really quite sick of hearing your voice. You give me a headache."

"You - you - you have _no right _to hear cases in Denerim! This is not Gwaren's jurisdiction!"

"No, but it is the _Crown's_ jurisdiction. While they haven't officially given me the right to hear cases for them, I'd prefer to beg forgiveness than ask permission in this instance. After all, I had that right under the rule of Anora and _Cailan, _and it was never officially revoked that I knew of."

"You're mad - insane!"

"_You're _hurting your case. Shut. Up."

Loghain sighed and pulled the Arl up off the ground. Vaughan's face registered a degree of relief until Loghain back-dragged him toward the makeshift wooden staging platform where the elves held weddings and festivals and sat down on the edge of it with another tired sigh as he pushed Vaughan down onto the ground in front of him. "This is turning into one hellacious long day."

Elves began to assemble around the vhenadahl, keeping a wary distance from both noblemen. Hahren Valendrian came, and stood with his arms crossed over his chest and a worried expression on his face. "I do hope that the community does not pay for this," he said.

"You won't, Sergeant," Loghain said.

"I'll have the alienage cleared out completely - all of you rotten knife-ears will pay for this insult," Vaughan said, and Loghain cuffed him on the back of the head.

"You just don't know when to shut your stupid mouth, do you, boy?"

Loghain Tabris came running up shortly thereafter, hotly pursued by a small contingent of the Arl's elite personal guard. Loghain rose to his feet and thundered a command at them to cease and desist. Confused, the men stopped as ordered.

"M'Lord, this man was seen to abduct the Arl of Denerim at knifepoint," the guard captain said.

"This man is my bailiff, Captain. Arl Vaughan is on trial for the crimes of rape and battery. Stand down."

The guards were clearly taken aback, and more confused than ever. They seemed to debate the wisdom of rescuing their Lord and employer versus the wisdom of disobeying direct orders from the restored Teyrn, Consort or whatever, of Gwaren. To a man, they stood down.

Tabris, newly appointed bailiff of this makeshift court, cleaned himself up a bit and, with only a little residual doubt clinging to his person, moved to stand nearer the prisoner, who did not for the moment have a hand upon him - merely a very large albeit half-grown mabari eyeing him with a narrow scrutiny that boded ill for him if he attempted to move.

"All right, let's get this amateur circus under way," Loghain said. "Bailiff Tabris, you will present the charges please?"

Never having so much as witnessed a trial before, Tabris fervently hoped he would not be called upon to say anything too official-sounding. "Arl Vaughan raped my wife, and beat her, about a month ago, Your Grace; she was hurt so bad she hasn't fully healed, yet."

"Serious charges. Is there any other charge that you…or anyone else…would care to bring against Arl Vaughan?"

There was silence for a time, and Loghain gently prompted, "Perhaps you are unaware, but while many nations set limitations on the length of time one has to level charges against the perpetrators of crimes deemed lesser than murder, Ferelden has never done so. We are seeking justice for all who have been wronged by this man, if it so happens that he has done wrong to more than this one woman. The number and severity of the charges he is found guilty of will weigh heavily in the consideration of proper sentencing."

After another short silence, a dark-haired elven man pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He stood there a moment, wringing his hands nervously, and then stammered out, "Your Grace…Arl Vaughan ordered his men to kidnap my daughter, Nola. I don't know who did it exactly, but because of those orders, my little girl is dead, now. Murdered."

"I was there," red-haired Shianni said, from where she stood by the door of Tabris' house. "I saw it happen. I don't know if the guards who did it were acting with or against orders, but they had no good reason to kill Nola, none at all, and they obviously didn't fear censure, either. And then Arl Vaughan and his cronies took turns raping and beating me. I'd be dead now, too, along with the other girls who were kidnapped, if Lo - if _Lightning_ and Cousin Soris hadn't come to our rescue."

Fired by example, others began to come forward, painting a grim picture of what the alienage had suffered over many years. There were parents and siblings who told tearful tales of daughters and sisters stolen away forever, some whose bodies had never been found. There were dry-eyed, whey-faced women who told of their own encounters with the Arl, which in numerous cases were barely survived. Some of these women told of things that had happened to them when they were no more than children, and some _were_ no more than children who came forward to break their painful silence, and Loghain felt his hatred for this foul man rise to entirely new levels.

"Other than the victims themselves, have there been any witnesses to any of these crimes?" Loghain asked. "Anyone who is willing to say what they saw with their own eyes?"

No one spoke for a long time. Vaughan had, after all, been quite open with his abductions but relatively private about his assaults. Loghain didn't need further witnesses, but he wanted them. He wanted every witness and every charge he could get against this beast, because no matter whether Alistair and Anora approved of his actions or not, there would be fallout. He intended that it should fall upon his head and not that of the Denerim elves, but all Vaughan's cronies, and all the nobles who would fear the precedent he set here today, would rage and flail and pick apart his actions, looking for some way to discredit him. The procedure needed to be as unassailable as possible. This ruling would stand.

He was about to give up when a slight disturbance by the vhenadahl caught his attention. A tiny blonde-haired girl tugged at the Hahren's shirt and whispered in the old man's ear when he bent down to hear her. Valendrian straightened up with a look of disconcertion on his face, but he said, "Your Grace, young Adaia Tabris says that she saw the attack upon her mother, Nessiara."

In Ferelden there existed a peculiar and rather quaint notion, at least from Loghain's perspective, that children below age ten or so made for perfect witnesses as they were incapable of lying. Loghain knew better, for he had a daughter who, at the tender age of six, looked him dead in the eye and coolly told him that the reason so many bottles were broken in the royal wine cellars, where she and Prince Cailan were playing, was that they had been attacked by an army of ogres. Still, there were enough fools who believed children utterly incorruptible to make hearing this witness a very good thing, and the girl had little reason to lie in this instance, and had no chance to be coached on what to say since the elves could never have expected to be heard in any sort of court.

"Please, child - step forward and tell me what you saw," Loghain said.

The little girl sidled into the clearing, looked doubtfully at Arl Vaughan kneeling dumbfounded in the dirt, and seemed to lose her courage. Loghain saw that and spoke again.

"Don't be afraid, little one. Your father is right here beside me, and no one is going to let you be hurt. You look very much like your grandmother, did you know that? She was one of my soldiers, long ago. She was a very brave woman, too - one of the bravest I've ever met. I bet you're as brave as she was, aren't you?"

The little girl took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Finally she said, "I didn't feel good, so Mama went to the Hahren's house to get me some medicine. She came back and _that man - " _she pointed to the Arl - "broke in the door to our house. Mama told me to stay in bed, but I…I peeked."

Loghain felt a bit queasy at the thought of what this innocent child saw that night. "You did the right thing," he said, voice a trifle hoarse thanks to a sudden dryness in his throat. "I know you probably wish you could forget what happened, but I need you to tell me exactly what you saw. Can you do that, Adaia?"

She nodded, her eyes downcast. "He pushed Mama down onto the floor and tore her dress. He hit her in the face and told her to shut up. Then he kept hitting her. Mama was bleeding all over the place. Then he put his hands around her throat and started choking her. Then all of a sudden he stopped. He just walked out, like he'd forgot all about it. Mama was really still. I was scared she was…dead. I was just scared. I was too scared to do anything for a long time, but then I was so scared for Mama that I ran out of the house to the Hahren's house."

Her little face worked, and then twisted up as she started to cry. "It was all my fault. If I hadn't been sick - "

"It was _not_ your fault," Loghain said. "It was not your fault, your mother's fault, or your father's fault. It was no one's fault except for the man who committed this crime. I know something of what you're feeling now, Adaia, believe me, and I know how much it hurts, but you have to know that you did everything you could have, and everything you _should_ have. Your mother might have died if you hadn't run for help. You were a very smart girl, and very, very brave. Now I'm going to ask you a very serious question and even though you have already told us I still want you to consider the answer very carefully, because there must be no mistake about it. _Who_ did you see attack your mother?"

Her tears did not abate but she still looked up with a very different sort of expression on her face. There was anger and stubbornness and fierce pride there, quite a familiar sort of countenance to Loghain, and while that look was not exclusive to the Mac Tir family or to the nation at large, nevertheless it was somehow an ineffably _Ferelden_ expression, and knew no restriction of race or social caste.

The little girl looked directly at the Arl, her eyes locked upon his for a long moment as if she were memorizing his face, and the fearful expression she saw there, for all time. "It was that man. That man right there, Ser. I know it was, and no mistake."

"Thank you, my dear. Your testimony has been invaluable. I believe I have heard more than enough evidence to render a verdict of guilty on all charges. I have only to consider the appropriate sentence, and for that I require a moment or two to think."

Loghain stood up, pulled Vaughan to his feet, and led him up onto the wooden platform, where he pushed him back down again, this time all the way to the floor. "Tabris, hold him down, please, while I ponder. Champion, see to it the Arl doesn't do anything stupid or otherwise typical of himself."

Loghain sat upon the wooden steps next to the prostrate Arl and made a great show of thinking. Maric had once accused him of developing a taste for dramatics, and perhaps he had. But even though he knew full well what sentence he would render, he did need this time to think.

"I've heard a lot of cases in my life, Vaughan," Loghain said at last, in a low voice intended only for the Arl's ears. "I've rendered a lot of guilty verdicts and pronounced a lot of sentences. I've had men whipped, locked in the stocks, cast into prison to rot out the remainder of their lives…men who committed not a fraction of the crimes you've committed. I've had men hanged, beheaded even. But they were commoners. You're an Arl. I just keep coming back to that fact in my mind. You're an Arl."

He felt silent for a time, considering. "You want to know what else I keep coming back to? Our oaths of fealty. You know the one - the one we swear to our King and Queen each year at the Landsmeet. I've said that oath time and again in my life, and so have you. But have you ever really considered what it is you're swearing to? I have. Sure, we're swearing fealty to our sovereign rulers, but there's a lot more in that oath than just that. We also swear to enforce and uphold the laws of this nation, and to protect her people. Uphold the law, protect the people. You haven't been very good about either, Vaughan. Not at all. In fact, it is now _my_ duty to protect your people from _you."_

Loghain paused for thought again, and tapped his fingers on the platform inches from Vaughan's terrified eyes. "If you weren't an Arl, I'd sentence you to death, no question about it. It's what your crimes have earned. But there isn't any precedent in this nation for the execution of a noble for crimes against an elf, and I know there'd be a tremendous flap about it if I did it. People would be seriously angry. _Important _people. Powerful people."

Another brief pause, and then, "You know something, Vaughan? I've never been much afraid to anger powerful people."

He stood up then. "Upon due consideration I pronounce a sentence of death against this man, to be carried out immediately. I would recommend, good people, that if you've a weak stomach or small children, to remove yourselves from this vicinity forthwith. You may be quite familiar with the specter of death, but an execution is an upsetting event and I would not encourage anyone with doubts to witness one." Someone came and hustled little Adaia Tabris away in a hurry. Loghain probably would have let her watch, for closure, but she _was_ awfully young, so he supposed it was for the best. "Tabris?"

"Yes, Lord General?"

"I require an executioner. I am quite capable of carrying out this sentence myself if necessary, but I thought perhaps I would make the offer. Don't take it unless you're sure. It's not an easy thing to do, killing a man in cold blood, no matter how much it is justified."

"I will do this, Ser, with great pleasure."

Loghain nodded, having expected as much. He drew his strange blue sword and passed it over. "Make it clean, lad. You don't owe it to him to give him an honorable death, but you owe it to yourself. Trust me when I tell you that drawing it out will serve you nothing."

Vaughan, who up until then had been silent, disbelieving, began to hyperventilate. "You can't do this to me. I am the Arl of Dener - " He was silenced, permanently, when the Archdemon-bone blade sliced neatly through his neck.

The blade had lodged itself deep into the wood of the platform. Tabris yanked it out with some difficulty and wiped the blood off of it with a shabby handkerchief he pulled from the collar of his armor. He looked slightly stunned, probably with the ease of the execution. Lopping off a head was not a pretty proposition, even with a very sharp sword, but this execution was eerily swift and clean. He handed back the sword.

"You all right, son?" Loghain asked. Tabris nodded. "I hope you got what you needed from that. Hahren Valendrian?"

"Yes, Milord?"

"I leave it to you: what do you wish done with the head? It could be placed above the alienage gates if you want."

Valendrian glanced around himself doubtfully. "Thank you, Milord, but…I think it would be better for everyone if we never saw the late Arl's face ever again."

"Very well." Loghain gestured to Vaughan's former guards, who'd made not a move to stop the execution. "You gentlemen can serve your late master one last time. You - stay here and clean up this blood, and mind you do a thorough job of it. The rest of you can carry the head and body out of here. As for myself, I need to head back to the palace immediately. I'll be catching a few arrows soon, I expect, and may end up making my own date with the headsman's axe soon enough."


	70. Chapter 70

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**No Bull From the Big Bull, Volume One, by Varric Tethras, a Humble Storyteller**

**Excerpt: The Seal of Rat Red**

_Patrick was the one who found him, and brought him back to camp. A lone man, bloody and beaten, with a terrible wound in his side. Sister Ailis took over at once, and ordered Gareth and Loghain to carry him into her tent so she could tend his injuries._

_Gareth left the tiny makeshift structure immediately after depositing the man onto the cot. Loghain, however, lingered briefly, pale grey-blue eyes sharp and suspicious, until Ailis shooed him out._

"_That boy doesn't want me here," the man gasped out, with a bit of a grin peeking through the blood and mud that caked his face._

"_Loghain doesn't trust people; it's nothing personal," Ailis replied. "I don't know the full details, but he's seen things no lad his age - no one of _any_ age - ought to have seen. Unfortunately, an all-too common story these days."_

"_The Maker-damned Orlesians."_

_Sister Ailis primmed up her mouth slightly. "Though I don't believe it is my place to judge such things, I do admit I hope you're right about that."_

"_I suppose you want to know how I came to this sorry end."_

"_I don't ask such questions, Ser. Gareth may wish to ask you later, if you're in condition to answer him."_

"_The big man, who looked like the boy?"_

"_Yes. He's Loghain's father. He acts as our leader. He's a good man."_

"_What _is_ this place?"_

"_Only where we've all happened to fetch up. Most of the people here are just poor folk with nowhere else to go. Now hush - save your strength."_

_The man slept then, or perhaps it was not so much sleep as loss of consciousness. Ailis did the best she could for him, but it was easy to see that, without magical healing, the man was very unlikely to recover. No matter how much pressure she applied or how many poultices she used up, the bleeding would not stop, not completely. And she suspected he wasn't just bleeding on the outside._

_Against her expectations, the man did awaken after a time. Gareth was there when the man's eyes opened, and they turned to him immediately. "You…you lead these people?" the man said, his voice far weaker than before. "You protect them? Even if it means breaking the law?"_

"_I do what I must to keep these people safe," Gareth said. "We all depend on each other: we have nothing else left in the world."_

"_Then you…you're the man I need." He raised shaking hands and stripped off a slender silver ring he wore on his left index finger. He held it out to Gareth. "Take it; the mantle of Rat Red passes to you."_

_Gareth stared hard at the ring, and then at the man. His broad shoulders lifted and fell in a silent sigh. "Rat Red. The man that causes trouble for the Orlesians."_

"_The _men. _There are never less than five of us; there can never _be_ less than five of us. We each of us swore to do anything we can to help the people of Ferelden. The rings are our seal and our oath: I have to pass it on before I die."_

_Gareth shook his big head slowly. "I…can't."_

"_You already have. This is just making it official."_

"_No. I have a responsibility to these people. To my son. I can't go haring off to wage a one-man war against the Orlesians. Not even if there _are_ four others doing the same."_

"_I bet your boy would do it. In a heartbeat."_

"_He won't. Because I won't let him."_

"_Gareth." The man broke into a spate of ragged coughs. "I'm not asking you to wage war. I'm asking you to help people - _Fereldens _- which is exactly what you're doing already. Just if you see an opportunity to help them by kicking an Orlesian ass or two, take it - and leave the mark of Rat Red behind. Doesn't have to be forever: just 'til Moira kicks the bastards out of here at last, right?"_

_The man tried to wink, but both eyes closed instead. "Please take the damn ring. It's getting…really heavy."_

_Gareth's hand, almost twice the size of the man's, hovered in mid-air for a moment before at last he took the ring. The man allowed his arm to drop like a stone. He smiled. "Thanks."_

_Gareth slipped the ring onto his left pinkie finger. "I'm not promising anything, you understand. My first priority must always be these people under my immediate protection."_

"_Gotcha." The man's voice was barely even a whisper. "I think I'm going to go back to sleep, now."_

"_Wait - what's your name?" Gareth asked._

"_Doesn't really matter anymore," the man said, and faded away. Ailis jumped up and moved to his head._

_"He's gone, Gareth," she said, and fingered the sun-shaped disc of the Chantry amulet at her throat._

_The big man sighed, ran distracted fingers through his short, greying hair, and ducked his way back out of the tent without a word. Loghain stood up from where he'd lain, carefully concealed, at the back of the tent, where he'd listened to every word. He watched his father walk through the village of hide and ragged cloth houses, and out of the encampment to the woods beyond. He might have been going for a walk to clear his thoughts, or he might have been going to the nearby town to start his campaign as the new Rat Red in the south of Ferelden. He might be back in moments, or never again. Silently, Loghain turned away and went back to his chores._


	71. Chapter 71

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Two: Ding Dong the Arl Is Dead**

Worst case scenario: the King and Queen cave in to pressure from the Landsmeet and have Loghain executed for murder, for treason, for overstepping his bounds…for whatever charge they could hang on him.

_Worse_ worst case scenario: the King and Queen cave in to pressure from the Landsmeet and have Loghain executed, and the alienage raided.

Likely scenario: the King and Queen uphold the verdict, chastise Loghain for stirring up the nobility without first giving them time to prepare, and then knuckle down and weather the inevitable shitstorm to follow. It was what he expected, but he believed in recognizing the worst that could happen so as not to be taken by surprise.

It wouldn't take long for the shitstorm to strike, since a high proportion of the nobility wintered in Denerim. By the time he made it back to the palace word had probably already begun to spread. In fact, the outraged legions (or at least two or three angry nobles) were probably already marshalling for a march on the palace. And so Loghain strode directly to the throne room, where he blithely interrupted court with the abrupt announcement that Arl Vaughan was dead and he was responsible for it, but "the bastard had it coming."

Anora swore and put her face in her hand. Alistair blinked, shook his head, blinked again, and said, "Okay, I think I may require a little more explanation than that." Loghain gave a brief description of the trial, the evidence, and the execution. Alistair sighed. "Okay, I knew Vaughan was a bastard, but I never knew he was a _sick _bastard."

Anora said. "I'm glad he's gone, and I'm glad it was done as an act of the Crown rather than an act of vigilante justice, but Maker's Breath, Father, this is going to be hard to smooth over with the Landsmeet."

"I want to know that the alienage has Royal protection from any repercussions," Loghain said. "People are going to be pissed off - if they try to take revenge on the elves even unofficially I'm going to put a stop to it. No matter how many skulls I have to break. They want to punish somebody, they can punish me."

"Ha! I'd like to see them try," Alistair said. Anora gave him a severe glare. "What I mean is, we aren't going to let anybody punish anybody, right?" he backfilled. "We'll uphold this ruling."

"Indeed. But I want you to document the evidence and witness testimony as quickly as possible, Father," Anora said. "It will be easier to defend our position when we have that in hand. Come in early tomorrow morning and you can dictate the details to our court reporter."

Elilia burst into the throne room, clad haphazardly in her fox fur cloak and not much else, and Haakon padded at her heels. "Is it true? Is Vaughan really dead?"

"He's dead," Loghain said.

"Maker's breath. I don't know whether to dance or just sing."

"Eli…what on earth are you _wearing?" _Alistair asked. She gave him a superior stare.

"One of my husband's linen shirts, Your Majesty," she said primly. Indeed, that was all she wore beneath the cloak, aside from a pair of heavy boots. The shirt was almost knee-length on her, and the half-laced neck exposed no more of her bust than the gowns she'd been wearing lately; nevertheless it was quite an ensemble. "I was wakened from quite a lovely nap with the news of Vaughan's death. I apologize for not taking the time to don my best finery. I suspected Loghain had something to do with it, and needed to know he wasn't going to be beheaded or anything. The servants were rather panicked."

"Elilia, I don't want to behead your husband. Not anymore," Alistair said, with a roll of his eyes.

"Yes. Well, wives worry about that kind of thing. Who's Vaughan's next of kin?"

"As it happens, his closest living relatives are Nathaniel and Delilah Howe. I'm not certain who his named heir might be. We'll have to send someone in to the estate to look for his will, if he left one, and documentation on who his closest living relations are," Anora said. "I think the likeliest candidate for the Arling is Bann Nicola of Westfaire."

"Nicola would make a good Arlessa, I think. She's done a good job with Westfaire," Elilia said. "I know it's a small holding, but she's smart about finances, so that's a plus. Denerim's City Accounts have done nothing but dwindle under Vaughan's management, and nothing to show for it. The only improvements in this town in the last ten years have been funded privately or by the Crown."

"When you're looking through Vaughan's documents, look for the deeds to properties in the alienage. Considering he was convicted of serious crimes there, I think the Crown ought to confiscate those properties. No matter who his heir might be, they shouldn't profit from his depravities," Loghain said.

Alistair and Anora shared a significant look. "I think that probably _is_ something we should consider doing," Anora said cautiously. "In cases such as this, the Crown would typically confiscate the holdings of the convicted. I don't think we should go so far as that, but the alienage suffered more than enough under Vaughan. And imagine what we could do to improve things there now."

Elilia coughed significantly. "Vaughan owned about half the property there, Your Majesties. I would like to speak with you privately, at a later date, about the other half."

"And now, if Your Majesties have no objections, I'd like to go home," Loghain said. "It's been a hell of a day, and my wife is standing here just next door to naked, so I think it's time to say goodnight."

"Oh. Er, yes, I think that probably is best. We'll get things sorted with regards to inheritance and other relevant documents," Alistair said. "Good evening, both of you. Don't worry about the alienage; I'll make sure no one bothers the elves."

Loghain put his arm around Elilia's shoulders and, with their mabari proudly leading the way, they walked out of the palace together. Evening was drawing on and the temperature was falling; underdressed Elilia huddled close against his side for warmth. And maybe for another reason, as well.

"I think I'd like a hot bath, when I get home," she said. "And I think I'd like you to join me in it."

"That sounds like a plan to me," Loghain said. He kissed the top of her head. "You know…I may have a surfeit of wax in my ears, but I believe you actually called me your husband today. You haven't done that before."

"Yes, well…it still strikes me as a strange sort of word for me to use, but I can't say I don't like it. Walk faster, eh? I'm freezing my knees off." Loghain chuckled and adjusted her cloak so that his arm pinned it tighter about her.

Back at Gwaren House, Elilia directed the relieved and attentive servants to draw a hot bath in the master bathchamber and promptly disappeared. Loghain went about the business of putting up his sword and preparing himself for the bath, and soon enough she reappeared.

"I, uh…thought of something I'd like you to have," she said, rather shyly. "I know you're not much on jewelry, but this played a part in Ferelden history so maybe it's of interest to you."

She presented him with a slender silver ring. A tiny, hand-engraved seal carved into the band was still legible, though much faded with time and wear. The words were Alamarri, and roughly translated read "Rat Immortal." He stared at it for a long time in silence so intense she feared she had somehow offended him.

"It's…it's the seal of Rat Red," she said nervously. "I know he was just a folktale of the Rebellion, but I thought maybe you'd like it anyway. You don't have to wear it or anything."

Loghain slipped the ring onto his left pinkie finger. "He wasn't a folktale, and he wasn't a man, either - or rather, not one man, but five. And when one died, or otherwise couldn't fulfill his role any longer, he passed his ring - and the name - on to another. This is an amazing gift, my dear, and I thank you for it. I can't even begin to state how much it means to me."

Elilia's shoulders relaxed. "Whew, for a moment there you had me worried. I'm glad you like it. You evidently know the story _behind_ the story of Rat Red - can I hear it?"

"Ha. You've heard just about all of it I know, I'm afraid."

A servant bowed in at the doorway and announced the bath was ready. He made a polite, professional disappearance and the couple retired to the bath chamber, where they helped each other out of their clothes and into the deep stone basin. Installed during Loghain's original tenure as Teyrn of Gwaren, it was very much larger than the average Ferelden bathtub, and held the both of them easily, if snugly. Snug suited them just fine.

There was a long interval where Elilia was unable to speak, and a longer interval where she was uninterested in speaking, but finally she stretched herself sinuously alongside his body and kissed him before asking, "So how is it you came to know so much about Rat Red? My father didn't know anything beyond the folktale, and in all of his stories, old Howe never told of anything more than the standard 'Immortal Rat' tale." She cocked a shrewd brow at him. _"You _weren't ever Rat Red, were you?"

He laughed. "No, I wasn't. But you're not far off all the same."

He raised his left hand out of the water and looked at the band of silver. "There were five of these rings, that I know of. I don't know if they were all identical or all unique - I've never seen but one of them before. But that one looked very much like this one, and it was worn by my father. He inherited it from a stranger that came to us, beaten and dying. I don't think he was able to pass it on himself before he was killed. Maybe it didn't matter by that point, since in five years we'd drive the Chevaliers out at River Dane, and it wasn't much later than that before Meghren's head decorated the Denerim gates he so liked to display Ferelden heads upon. No more need for the Immortal Rat."

"So…this might once have been your father's ring," Elilia said.

"It's a possibility. I call it a fairly remote chance myself, but I suppose Laz Brosca would say it had to be the same ring."

"I like the way Laz thinks." Elilia sighed happily and snuggled against his chest. "I'm glad it turned out to have personal significance to you; if I'd known I'd have given it to you ages ago. I've had it since the Blight. I never really even thought about it in all these years, except on odd occasions when it surfaced in a handful of coin I took out of my purse. Glad I hung on to it."

"What made you think to give it to me now?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know. I'm happy to have a pretty major problem solved, of course. Vaughan was a pig and a thorn in the side. But it's more than that…I feel like you've rectified a mistake I made a decade ago, when I let the bastard out of the dungeon Howe locked him in. I don't want this getting around, you understand, but I wasn't necessarily…one hundred percent myself, at that time - by which I mean the whole year between what happened to my family and…well, probably the time I found out Fergus was still alive. There were times I acted with…shall we say…at least a degree of willful wickedness. Alistair always thought I was quite a jolly person; I was actually about half a breath from insane with rage most of that time. One of the things that made me angriest was how cheerful he always was, when he wasn't moping about Duncan. All of them - Alistair, Wynne, Leliana. My pious contingent. It's strange...I valued their companionship, considered them friends...and hated them at the same time."

"I never would have guessed, my darling, that you were capable of _willful wickedness," _Loghain said dryly, "but now at last I understand your motivation for keeping me alive. You _wanted _to piss off Golden Boy, and the Circle Mage."

"_No," _she said. "But maybe there was an element there of wanting someone on my side who didn't need to be _led. _I never really felt quite up to the task of being in charge, but there was no chance in hell _Alistair_ was going to step up. I'm glad he's overcome that reticence. I would guess that if his marriage hadn't started out contentiously that wouldn't have happened."

"I would guess you had a hand in _preparing _him to step up," Loghain said. "You came into your strength in abominably harsh circumstances, my dear, and I am sorry for the hand I had in making them rougher, but you did what you had to do and you did it very well indeed. I'm proud of you. And in case I haven't said it often enough, I love you."

* * *

**A/N: **For me, writing is kind of a form of mental bulemia: I stick a finger in my brain and puke up a chapter. Most of the time I can do this more or less whenever I want to. This chapter very nearly required an emetic, and I have a sneaking suspicion that I came up with something last night I wanted to add, but have completely forgotten what that might have been. Oh well. It was rough because after building up to lopping Vaughan's head off for so long it was evident whatever happened next would be anticlimactic; it was hard to figure out just where to go from there. But now that the immediate aftermath is out of the way I should be able to proceed to other issues.


	72. Chapter 72

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** This is the stuff I forgot I wanted to add to the last chapter. It actually worked out well enough in the end since this gave me an opportunity to toss in some things I'd been looking for a chance to shoehorn in.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Three: Background to History**

"So…why _did_ you let Vaughan out of Howe's dungeon?" Loghain asked, after they had repaired from the bath to the bed. "I understand what you mean by willful wickedness, but I would have thought that impulse could be served just as well by knifing the bastard in the gut. You were thinking something, weren't you?"

Elilia sighed. "I was thinking he'd speak up for me at the Landsmeet, which he did. That maybe wasn't all there was to it. Maybe that wasn't even the real reason I let him out. I don't know."

Loghain wasn't a man given to press for details, but something told him Elilia wanted to speak of it, maybe even needed to. She had held it in for a decade, after all, and he knew from personal experience how hard it could be to keep silent for too long. He didn't tell her to have out with it: he didn't have to. She saw it in his face and, with a deeper sigh, snuggled into his shoulder and bared her soul.

"I let Vaughan out because Howe was the one who locked him up," she said. "I knew he was a sick bastard, I knew he belonged in prison - at the very least. But Howe…I hated Howe so much for what he did to my family…I couldn't think past that. I couldn't think past that even though, at the moment I killed him, I felt…_sad_…about it. When I was a little girl he was Uncle Rendon. He used to carry me on his shoulders, tell the best stories…I couldn't help thinking about those things. It just made everything that happened so much worse, so much more…senseless. To this day, I still don't really understand why he turned on us. I know he was bitter…but it still makes no sense."

She propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him intently, with a faint undercurrent of anger. "I really never wanted to ask you this, but…why did you stand with him? I mean, I realize now that there were influences, but you knew what he did at least as far back as Ostagar."

Neither the question nor the anger underlying it surprised him; if anything, the only surprise was that it took her so long to ask. "I had every intention of confronting Howe about what happened at Highever upon my return to Denerim," he confessed. "He didn't give me the chance. He rode out under flag of truce and met the army just outside South Reach. He had papers, letters in your father's hand that were vague but which seemed to suggest he had stronger ties to Orlesian interests than I would have guessed of him. It was enough, at the time, for me to feel Howe may have been justified in his actions. I wanted to investigate further, but of course Howe destroyed most of Bryce's documentation when he sacked Highever. 'Accidentally.'"

Elilia collapsed back onto the bed. "Damned Orlais. We can't seem to shake the bastards off. If they're not actively pushing us down, the fear and hate they inspired in us are ripping us apart from the inside."

It was Loghain's turn to sigh. "I know."

She placed her hand on the middle of his chest and toyed with the hair that grew on it. "Hating Howe…wanting revenge…I think it poisoned me."

"Hate does that," Loghain said. "It can also give you strength when you think you've reached your limits. Unfortunately it's not so easy to let go of. You did a lot better on that score than I ever did."

"I still hate the bastard."

"It doesn't seem to consume you. A lot of people in your position would have taken great pleasure in killing Howe and Nathaniel and Delilah, too. After all, he took away your family - why not take away his? But you didn't do that. Instead you gave Nathaniel a chance to redeem his family name and now Delilah is Arlessa of Amaranthine."

"I made Nathaniel a Warden. That's a lot like killing him."

"Is that _why_ you conscripted him? So he would die?"

"Well, no. I needed help, he was clearly skilled, I thought he had a good chance of surviving the Joining…"

"In my experience, serving with the Wardens is also pretty much the fastest route to restoring lost honor, too."

"Maybe so."

She lay quietly for long enough that he thought she had fallen asleep. Then, to his surprise, he felt her shoulders shaking. He looked at her and realized she was trying to hold back tears. He wasn't sure exactly what made her need to cry, and it really didn't matter anyway. He turned toward her, gathered her into his arms, and kissed her. She broke down completely, and sobbed with her arms around his neck as he kissed her tears.

"Thinking about what you've lost?" he asked.

"Yeah, I guess I am." Suddenly she laughed, though she didn't stop crying. "I never got much chance to mourn. I certainly wasn't about to cry in front of Duncan. Alistair would've fallen to pieces if I broke down, Wynne would've lectured me on my sacred duty, and Leliana would've broken out some gem about the Maker and I wasn't exactly feeling the faith at the time. Morrigan would've seen it as a weakness potentially exploitable, and Oghren would just belch and pass out. I don't even want to think about how the Sten would've reacted. _Zevran_ was probably the only one who wouldn't have been judgmental about it, and he would've used it as an excuse to try and seduce me - like everything else."

"Can't promise I won't try and seduce you, my dear, but I understand these tears and I'll hold you for as long as you need to cry them."

She kissed his neck and cried on his shoulder. "It's been more than ten years," she said. "You must think I'm out of my mind, bawling about it now."

"I take it you've forgotten Gwaren: how you held me after I unburdened myself to you about what had happened more than fifty years ago. Sometimes old wounds hurt, and that's all there is to it. Sometimes they don't heal."

"You didn't cry."

"Perhaps not. Perhaps I didn't need to, knowing that I was with someone who understood exactly what it was to lose someone you loved so much, so horribly."

She choked briefly, and her arms tightened around his neck. "Stop it, you're making me cry harder."

He moved so that he half-covered her when he rolled her onto her back, and he proceeded to cover her face and throat with his softest kisses. "You are not weak," he told her, in a low voice very much different in tone from his usual. "This is not weakness. This is nothing more than washing out all the stains on your heart."

She choked up again. "I love you," she said. Her hands moved from his shoulders to his chest, and from his chest to his stomach. When she would have reached lower he stopped her hands, raised one to his lips and kissed it.

"Not that I don't like the direction your thoughts are taking you, my love," he said, and kissed her fingers again, "but I do find that particular activity quite distracting, and for the next while I wish to focus my attention quite thoroughly upon you, and you alone."

* * *

Some time later, Loghain raised his head from a leisurely and detailed exploration of her inner thighs. She was no longer in tears; the wet tracks on her face had long since dried. She was smiling, and her eyes had a dreamy quality to them, as if she were in the Fade wide awake.

She reached out her hand and stroked his lean face. "I haven't been a proper Andrastian for a long time, but those ashes could make me a true believer yet."

"What do you mean?" he asked, and began to kiss his way up her stomach.

"Your hair is growing in black. Had you noticed?" She reached out and took a lock of it in her fingers. Below where she grasped it the hair was silver; above, roughly two inches of follicle before the scalp, it was black. Loghain, who almost never looked in a mirror - who had no reason to do so, since he grew no beard to shave - had not noticed.

"Black hair is all it takes to make you a believer?" he asked.

"Black hair and the promise of a long life with the man I love."

"I hate to break it to you, darling, but thirty years is about the maximum I can give you, and the last decade or so at the least are likely to be anything but pleasant for either of us. If you wanted a long marriage, you ought to have married a younger man."

"You _are_ a younger man."

"Younger than dirt, perhaps, but only just."

"Thirty years from now, when you're only just reaching the pains and complaints associated with middle age, I will expect your apology for having doubted me."

"You think that Andraste's ashes cured me of being old," he said. "Darling, there is no cure for old."

"Aye, there's no cure for the Blight, either, is there? What is age, really? It's not years, it's miles; it's life beating you up until your body can't take it anymore. Just like a wound that won't heal. And the ashes heal wounds."

"All right, I'll admit I haven't felt the aches I dealt with for decades prior to being dosed with the ashes, but there's a fallacy in your logic somewhere."

"But you can't find it, can you? Darling, I see it better than you do because I, on rare occasions, have had the opportunity to watch you sleep. When you stop scowling, which unfortunately pretty much only happens when you're sound asleep - and sometimes not even then - those scowl lines, my beloved, go away. I noticed it before but it's gotten more obvious since we came back to Denerim."

"More obv - " A sudden thought stunned him into momentary silence. "I…gave myself a second dose of ashes. After spending all that time in the alienage with the Bloody Lung, I didn't want to risk bringing it back to the palace."

"I suspected as much. Darkening hair and an absence of permanent lines hasn't been my only clue. How many times today have you made love to me? Granted your stamina has always been superhuman…"

"Who says I've finished?" He nuzzled her breasts and sucked a pink nipple into his mouth. "Perhaps you're right," he said, when he had the power of speech again. "Perhaps you have found for me the secret to restored youth. If so, I can think of no more congenial way to punish my body back into the infirmities of age than by making love to you. It's certainly better than the way I did it the first time 'round. And fortunately, my dearest, the single dose I gave you was larger than _both _doses I took, so if I've been given extra time, so have you."


	73. Chapter 73

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Four: Remember the Dalish?**

"Loose!"

With a fine loud _poom-FWWWOOOOOSH, _the massive projectile flew from the ballista, struck the wooden target, and exploded. The stacked logs first fell over and then caught fire.

"Beautiful!" Dworkin Glavonak cried.

"Not bad," Loghain said. "Lets see what a stronger mixture nets us. Siege weapons are better if there's less fire and more…you know, blowing stuff up. Rock doesn't burn, Master Dwarf."

"Not universally true, you know."

"Aye, but people don't build walls out of coal." He walked over and touched the bow arm of the ballista. "I'm happy with the way this is functioning. Do you think we can make it more powerful?"

"If we can make a stronger spring, I suppose. Won't be easy."

"Do it. I need this thing as strong as we can get it, and quickly. Has Wade come up with those arrowheads I asked for?"

"No, but that fruity little whatever of his said they'd be ready by this afternoon. You in a real ass-bustin' hurry for 'em?"

"Yes, Master Dwarf, as a matter of fact I am. Notify me at once when they arrive."

"Do you think this exploding ballista-thing will work against this creature we're going up against?" That was Elilia, watching from the sidelines as the new weapons designs were tested.

"I'm hoping it will, but I'm hedging my bets. I've set Master Wade to making arrowheads and bolt-tips out of Archdemon - the stuff is sharper and stronger than anything I've ever encountered, good enough to cut steel and not even lose its edge. Maybe it will cut this thing, armored though it may be."

"Makes me hope Wade finishes my new sword."

"If I know him the damned thing _is_ finished, he's just obsessing over it the way he does."

"Last time I heard from him about it he was in tears because he couldn't find that _one perfect material _to finish it off."

"What about that rune you gave him?"

"He added it, but it wasn't enough for him. He wants to imbue the blade with something extra-incredible that will make him a legend among weaponsmiths. As opposed to merely amongst armorsmiths, I suppose."

"He is damned good. Unfortunate that he's so bloody temperamental. More like a flogging _actor _than an armor smith. Maybe we can scrounge something to satisfy him from the corpse of this Archdemon-father - _if _we can kill it. He'll have to let you have the sword before we head south, however - I'm not letting you get within a hundred miles of this thing without it, prima donnas be damned."

Elilia walked over and inspected the ballista. "You don't think Varric will be upset you figured out the design of his crossbow, do you?"

"Why should he be?" Loghain demanded. "Your friend Varric is many things, my dearest, but an engineer he is not. If he gets pissy just tell him he can name the damned thing, if he wants to."

He took her aside then, and kissed her. "Well, that was nice," she said. "What was that for?"

"I want you to help me talk to the Dalish," he said.

"Woah, you mean _the_ Dalish? The Dalish who are camped out at the bottom of the mountain on the Brecilian side? _Those_ Dalish?"

"Yes, those Dalish. I need you; you're good with people. I have to try and convince them to loan me a half dozen or so of their best archers, and I can't imagine that will be easy."

"Why do you need the Dalish? Don't we have enough archers to suit you?"

"Not good enough. I need distance _and_ precision, and our archers are rarely adept at both. The Dalish train for that, from birth practically."

"Well, why can't you talk to them yourself? You seemed to be doing all right with them before, and they are…you know…" She led him some distance away from listening ears. "…_Family."_

"Not _close_ family, and you know I have a knack for pissing people right off."

"And _you_ know _I'm_ not exactly the Dalish's favorite Shemlen. I fed an entire clan to a pack of werewolves, remember."

"Oh. Actually I'd forgotten that. I suppose it isn't a good idea to take you along, then."

"No. I suppose it isn't. Why not take that friend of Champion Hawke's, the one whose half a step from figuring your secret out, anyway? She's Dalish, she should be a big help to you. And she seems to like you well enough - _Elder."_

Loghain grimaced, but said, "I suppose it couldn't hurt to ask. But if she starts telling people I'm a half-blood I'm cutting her tongue out."

"Honestly, Loghain - I really don't understand what there is to be so worried about."

"Oh? Remember _your _initial reaction to the news? Anora wasn't particularly pleased, either."

"Okay, good point."

Later that afternoon, after the special arrowheads were delivered, inspected, and approved, Loghain knocked on the door of the palace room Merrill shared with Kireani Hawke. The mage was the one to answer.

"Oh! Elder - what a surprise. I suppose you want to see Hawke? I'll get her."

Loghain held up a hand. "Actually, Merrill, I came to ask a favor of you."

"A favor? What sort of favor?"

"There's a clan of Dalish elves camped at the foot of Mount Drakon, to the south of the city. They have pledged to lend support to the fight against the Orlesians, but that may never have to happen. I need to ask them if they would loan Ferelden a few of their best archers, and I'm not altogether good at talking to people even when I do understand the culture. I hoped you might come along with me and keep me from offending anyone too badly."

"Oo…erm…you see…there's something you really ought to know…the Dalish…are pretty likely to try and kill me…"

Loghain did not bother to hide his surprise. "But you _are_ Dalish, aren't you?"

"It's a long and…sordid…story. Suffice to say I did something bad, and some bad things happened, and now they all…hate…me."

"_All _Dalish hate you? Or only your clan? Because it strikes me as unlikely this is the same clan."

"Well, I'd expect they've all been informed of what I've done by this time. Dalish are like that. Clannish." There was some evident bitterness in her tone as she said this.

"And that's why I could really use the help of someone who has been an insider," Loghain said. "Look, I don't know what you did and I don't want to know, but I won't let them hurt you; I can promise you that."

"I _do _want to help you, Elder…oh, why not? If they try anything I'll make their heads explode."

"Let's try and refrain from head explosions unless absolutely necessary, right?"

"Oh. Right."

"Have you ever ridden a horse before?" Loghain asked as they walked out of the palace.

"Er…no, I haven't," Merrill said.

"What about a halla? Rode one of those?"

"No. I've never ridden anything except an aravel, which doesn't take much skill to ride since I was always _inside, _not on the driver's seat. Is that a problem?"

"Not much of one. My horse is more than strong enough to carry us both, assuming you're not scared of heights."

"Not particularly. Is it a very tall horse?"

"Very."

Gwaren House was close to the Palace, and he led her to the stables around back. Bloody Big Horse, a.k.a "Commander," whickered a greeting to his master as they approached his large box stall.

"Oh my goodness," Merrill said, looking up at the big animal. "Hello; you were at the wedding, weren't you? Well, you were in the wedding procession, I certainly don't remember seeing you in the Chantry for the ceremony and I'd definitely remember that. You were wearing blue armor with a matching blanket and had all sorts of pretty ribbons in your mane and tail. You were very handsome."

"He doesn't speak Common, Merrill," Loghain said, with an expressive roll of the eyes.

"Oh. I don't suppose he speaks Elvhen, then, does he? Didn't think so."

"Merrill, has anybody ever told you that you are an absolutely _fascinating_ individual?" Loghain said, behind the hand that covered his face.

"Yes, and in exactly that tone, too," Merrill said, brightly.

Loghain shook his head once, vigorously, and then said, "Stand over there out of the way while I get Bloody Big Horse ready."

Merrill perched herself upon a railing and watched the process of putting saddle and bridle on the horse with bright-eyed interest. When he was finished she followed man and horse out of the stable to the yard.

Loghain climbed into the saddle and held a hand out to Merrill. "Just put your foot in the stirrup and I'll pull you up," he said. Another elf couldn't have done it, but Merrill was the height of a human woman and only needed a bit of a hop and a stretch to reach the metal ring. Loghain pulled her up and she sat easily enough behind him on the saddle.

"What do I do with my arms, Elder?" Merrill asked. "I mean, when I've seen people riding double like this in the past, the lady usually had her arms around the gentleman's middle, but I don't want anyone getting any funny ideas."

"I am fully aware of your relationship with Champion Hawke, as you are fully aware of my marriage to Teyrna Elilia. Whose going to get funny ideas, Merrill?"

"People watching. Teyrna Elilia, perhaps."

"Elilia knows I'm a one-woman man, Merrill, and besides which she knew I was going to ask you to come with me - she suggested it, in fact. You needn't worry about her. Falling off: now _that's _something to worry about. Unless of course you're wondering what _your _ladylove will think."

"Oh no, Hawke knows she's my one and only."

"I'm glad you've got someone you care about, Merrill."

"And I'm glad you do, too, Elder - I think everybody ought to have someone they care about, don't you? People that don't…I feel so sorry for them."

"Yes, yes - now hold tight and keep still; the path down the south slope of the mountain is narrow and steep, and I'm not too sure of this big brute's footing." In truth he knew full well the path was wide enough, and they hadn't even left the stable yard besides. He simply felt that if he listened to too much Merrill-speak his head might explode, and it would have nothing to do with blood magic.

He clicked his tongue once and the big horse obligingly walked ahead. They crossed the deep gorge cut straight through the mountain and the city by the mighty Drakon River on one of Denerim's six bridges and passed out the narrow, little-used gate that led to the southern slope and directly to the wild and dangerous Brecilian Forest. The Dalish camp was hidden inside, not far from the head of the Brecilian Passage. It didn't take Loghain long to find it: he'd scouted it out months ago, in case of trouble - from any quarter. But it was much larger now than the last time he'd seen it.

The bows that met them were lowered reluctantly when he spoke his name. "I wish to speak with Keeper Verrithal."

"I suppose such as you has business with him," the leader of the Dalish guards said doubtfully, though from the look he was giving Merrill it was hard to say whether he doubted his words or his eyes. "I will tell him you are here."

Loghain didn't dismount until the Keeper appeared. Then he climbed off of Bloody Big Horse and extended a hand to the man. The gesture the man returned was less a handshake than a handclasp. "Loghain. You are keeping well, I trust?"

"Well enough. Keeper, this is my friend Merrill. I brought her along in hopes she could keep me from misbehaving too badly."

The Keeper nodded toward Merrill, who did not get off the horse but sat there looking nervous and exceedingly guilty. By Verrithal's narrowed eyes the suggestion was he knew Merrill, or at least knew of her, and didn't approve. He said nothing, however.

"Your clan is a lot bigger than I thought it would be, Keeper," Loghain said. "By about two dozen aravels."

"This is not all my clan," Verrithal said. "Several other Ferelden clans have joined us, in hopes that our service will accord us some degree of respect from the Shemlen."

"And it is your service I've come to speak to you of, Keeper," Loghain said. "There are new developments you need to know about."

Verrithal cocked his head to one side. "Do you speak of the Sun-Eater? We are aware of its approach."

"The Sun-Eater?"

"That was what Asha Belannar called it when she spoke to us. A terrible golden dragon, great enough to block the sun."

"Well, she didn't tell _me_ all of that, but yes, that is what I've come to speak of, in part."

"Come; sit by the fire with us and I will call the elders for a council."

"Thank you, Keeper."

Loghain helped Merrill down off from Bloody Big Horse, saw the animal into the care of the Dalish with a growl of warning, and followed the Keeper to the large bonfire at the center of the encampment. Merrill stayed close by his side as they passed what seemed to be a thousand wary eyes, but it was hard to tell if that was because she thought she needed protection or because she thought he did.

The Keepers and Elders were assembled with a pleasing degree of alacrity, considering some of the elders were eld indeed. "First of all, I just want you all to know: Orlais is embroiled in something of a civil war. They may not be a threat to Ferelden any longer, at least for awhile."

"So then we are called together for nothing?" a young woman, evidently a Keeper, said.

"No, Erelleth, not for nothing," Verrithal said. "Please, Loghain - continue."

"Forestalling any war can only be a good thing," Loghain said. "I hope very much that this one has been preempted eternally, but I know better. It will happen one day, even if the Orlesian Empire falls. There's always someone who wants to prove how big and bad they are by picking on someone smaller. And that, too, is why I have come to speak to you today."

"You speak of the Sun-Eater, of course," Verrithal said. "You wish our help in destroying it. We will aid you in any way we can."

Loghain blinked. "You will? I didn't expect such an easy acquiescence, to say the least."

"The Woman of Many Years told us that we must. Besides which, this creature is a threat to us all. If it lives, there will never be an end to the scourge of the Darkspawn. We hope you have a plan to defeat this creature: Asha Belannar said we ought to leave that up to you."

Loghain breathed deeply. "My plan is to hit it with everything I can throw. To that end I've had some special arrows made up, with special arrowheads. I brought one of them along with me so you can have a look."

He took from his pack a single blue-tipped arrow, rifle-fletched with hawk feathers, and allowed the elves to pass them around. "This is elvhen-style fletching," one old man said. "Who made these?"

"A man named Master Wade made the arrowheads, but I did the rest," Loghain said.

"And where did you learn to fletch like that?"

"From my mother," Loghain said. The old man looked at him in surprise, then speculation, and ultimately a degree of distaste. Merrill blinked, looked at Loghain, and then burst out with:

"Oh! I _thought _you had an elfy face!"

* * *

**A/N:** Not wholly satisfied with this chapter, but at least it takes me where I needed to get to. Which is not to Merrill blabbing to everyone about Loghain's ancestry, although I'm not sure yet that it won't happen.


	74. Chapter 74

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Five: I Am the God of Hellfire**

_The Sun-Eater breathes death._

Flemeth told the Dalish she would send the dragon to Loghain. Loghain determined that would happen far from the inhabited areas of Ferelden, and that meant the former Blightlands. He marshaled Maric's Shield, a company of Alistair's apostate army for support and healing, and the half-dozen Dalish archers that volunteered service and headed for the skeletal remains of Lothering.

The dragon's roars could be heard for miles, even the sound of its wing beats carried to their ears days before they ever saw the creature, nearing and receding as it terrorized the denizens of the great southern Wilds. Loghain received the impression that it was toying with its prey, not seriously hungry or even seriously hunting, just flying and roaring and burning things: a dragon's holiday drive in the country. A thick haze of smoke wafted out of the Wilds. Fortunately the wet marshland kept the blazes from spreading or all of Ferelden would burn. Loghain knew it still might. _Would, _if they didn't kill this thing soon.

They camped for three days, preparing, and on the fourth morning, as promised, the dragon roared a challenge.

_So, you are the Little Hero that has come to kill me? Many have tried and failed in aeons past. What makes you think you shall fare better than they?_

Loghain heard this in his head, and he knew the voice very well indeed. It was his own.

"Maybe because I'm _not_ a Hero, just the stiff who gets the job done," he muttered. Elilia's ears perked.

"Pardon?" she asked.

"Sorry. Nothing," he lied.

_Stay, I will come to you,_ the dragon spoke in his voice in his head. _I shall not keep you waiting for your death, Little Hero._

_Good, because I should very much like to have this over with, _Loghain thought for himself this time. He did not intend this day to end with _his_ death, but if the dragon brought it to him then so be it. As long as the job was done one way or another, his life didn't matter much.

As long as the job was done, and Elilia came through all right. If anything happened to her, he didn't want to live. He wouldn't have let her come, but who was he to stop her? Only her husband, and if he started acting like that meant he had control of her he would lose her in a heartbeat.

"Get ready," he called out in his louder-than-the-Maker voice to the entire company. "It's coming."

"How do you know?" Elilia asked, even as she immediately began to slather her skin with the many different types of balms and salves the herbalists had crafted for them. Loghain was taking no chances: whether this thing breathed fire, ice, spirit magic, or all of the above, his people would be protected.

"It told me so," he admitted, but in a voice meant for her ears only.

"I…see," she said, though it was clear she didn't.

"I know it sounds crazy, but it spoke to me, in my head. You told me that the High Dragon somehow convinced the Haven cultists that it was Andraste, or at least to protect its nest so that they convinced themselves. Maybe that's how they do it. They get into your mind, like blood mages."

"That…doesn't sound good."

"I agree. Perhaps the mages can do something to help with that? Don't want the army mentally dominated."

"I'll see what can be arranged."

Loghain made sure everyone was in position. All too soon, and from an impossible distance, the dragon appeared on the far horizon. It was like watching sails closing in from far across the sea, but soon enough it was evident that this creature could probably carry away the _Fighting Ferelden _in its talons if it wanted to. When it was still roughly ten miles away it roared again, and the sound was deafening. Before the ringing in their ears stopped, it was upon them.

It could have killed the entire corpse with one swing of its tail, or breathed fire down on the lot of them. Instead, it landed in front of them, sent a few vanguard soldiers flying with a casual swat of a front leg, and spit liquid fire on several more. These poor souls burned very quickly inside their armor, even with the balms they'd applied to their skin, and in a matter of seconds were no more than a pile of charred bones and ash. Loghain realized that for all the witch's humor about running out of Chasind, the creature did not particularly look to eat humans; it sought to terrify them, dominate them, rule them.

_That's right, Little Hero. You poor creatures _need_ ruling. I will show you the one true god: soon, you will all bow to me. And you, Little Hero, shall be the first._

"Loose!" Loghain shouted, and the archers of Maric's Shield bombarded the creature with explosive arrows. The dragon threw its head back on its long neck and made a sound that was much like derisive laughter. Powerful blasts that had taken chunks from solid stone left not a mark upon the dragon's brilliant golden scales.

Nothing daunted, Loghain signaled for the ballistae. There were three of them, all patterned after Varric's spring-loaded crossbow Bianca, all with as much power as he'd been able to force Dworkin Glavonak to coax out of them. He had three dozen powerful explosive bolts tipped with Archdemon-bone for penetration. Much of his hopes were pinned on these weapons.

They did absolutely nothing.

Well, no, not _absolutely_ nothing. When the blastwaves cleared he saw that the shattered remnants of the bolts were indeed stuck in the creature's scaly hide. Archdemon-bone had the ability to penetrate the dragon's armor, it seemed, but either the bolts weren't powerful enough or the heads weren't sharp enough. They sank in to roughly the depth of a pinky finger and no deeper, leaving the explosive charges outside the dragon where they did no damage at all.

_Should've made Dworkin figure out how to bind the explosive to the heads, like he did with the steel, _Loghain thought, but this was no time for second-guessing himself.

_Hurting me was ill-advised, Little Hero. Kneel in supplication, or I shall slaughter your army, ravage your homeland, and leave you alive to watch it all._

_Wasn't that the plan all along? _Loghain thought back.

_Other than the "Leave you alive" bit: yes, essentially._

Not privy to this telepathic conversation, Elilia nudged Loghain. "Do you see that? We can cut this thing," she said. She drew the magnificent blue greatsword they'd finally prized from Master Wade's hands and, before Loghain could stop her, launched herself at the dragon's legs with a righteous battle cry. The dragon sensed his alarm instantly.

_The female is special to you? How convenient._

The dragon reached out and grabbed Elilia around the middle, quick as a flash. _How shall it be, then? Shall I crush her? Bite her in two? Burn her? The choice is yours._

"No!" Loghain said, and his panicked shout echoed weirdly off the solid bulk of the towering dragon. "Don't hurt her, please! Eat me, I'm begging you. I…I'll kneel. All I ask is that you eat me and not her."

And he dropped his shield and bent his knee. The resultant posture was more a crouch, but the dragon was perhaps at a bad angle to notice that, so high above.

Loghain's voice laughed at him in his own mind. _Submitting so easily? Wise, but so very weak. Very well then, since you have learnt your proper place, I shall grant you your wish._

The beast tossed Elilia into a line of soldiers, who toppled like dominos beneath the impact of her. Open-mouthed, the dragon's head dropped down. As commanded, the Dalish archers loosed their Archdemon-headed arrows directly into its mouth. The sudden sting of half a dozen well-placed arrows in the throat made the creature rear back, but did not stop it. With a growl of irritation, the dragon swooped down and closed its great jaws on the place where Loghain crouched, tensed and waiting. And as that gigantic mouth engulfed him, Loghain did the hardest thing that any man in massive plate could ever do.

He jumped.

He jumped up, straight into the dragon's mouth. The fence-post teeth clamped briefly on one Archdemon-bone boot and he felt the armor crumple but the bone was harder than the dragon was expecting and its reflexive release allowed him to pull his foot inside to relative safety. Very relative. He pitched forward as the dragon raised its head to swallow him down, as it did not much care if he was alive or dead when it started to digest him. He heard Elilia scream and was glad at least to know that she was still alive.

_Tell me, Dragon - are you armored on the inside as well as you are on the outside? _Loghain thought as he slid inexorably toward the dragon's gullet.

_What are you thinking, Little Snack?_

_I'm thinking you're not as big as you think._

As he dropped into the dragon's throat he drew his sword. A few feet down the hard armor plating on the palette gave way to red flesh and the Archdemon blade sank into it with the ease of a knife cutting a steak. The dragon roared in pain, and Loghain's head rang with it long after the sound died away. The pain in his ears was such that he thought something in them may have exploded. He ignored the agony in his head and worked his sword blade back and forth, trying to cut something important, hoping against hope that there was a vital blood vessel within reach.

When he found it, he knew it. Blood poured from the wound he'd made right up until he struck the artery, and then it gushed in a blazing-hot torrent that knocked him back and plastered him to the back of the creature's throat. Gallons of fire drenched him, he drowned in it. There was no keeping it out of his nose and mouth, no way to keep from swallowing it, from breathing it. His lungs filled up with it, his stomach churned on it. It was not a pleasant sort of death by any means. He almost would rather have been chomped. Still stuck like a bone in the dragon's throat, he fell into a black pit in his mind, and the oblivion he found there came as a mercy.

On the outside, the soldiers watched as the dragon underwent a series of wild convulsions. The corps retreated, out of the way of the creature's trampling feet. Bann Cauthrien found Elilia, injured with a wrenched hip, and pulled her to safety.

"What's happening? What's wrong with it?" she asked.

"I think…I think it ate something that disagreed with it," Elilia answered, beginning with a grimace against the pain in her hip but ending with a grim smile for her man.

"We've got to move, we've got to pull back - further! Further!" Cauthrien screamed the order. The dragon no longer had any attention to spare them. It tried to roar again, but all that emerged was a glut of dark red blood. Where it struck snow, the snow melted immediately, with a sizzling sound. The dragon thrashed for some time but at last, with a hoarse rattle, fell to the ground with an almighty crash that shook the world like an earthquake.

Still it was not dead. It lay, gasping for breath, and Elilia limped up to its long throat and swung her sword at it with all the strength she could muster.

"Give him back!" she shouted, and wailed away at the beast. Her blade slowly bit into the stronger-than-steel scales and eventually, like a timberjack working a mighty tree, she cut well into it. Once she had a hole started it was easier to work. When she'd managed to burrow a hole in the dragon large enough for her shoulders, she crawled inside even as the dragon's final breaths whistled in and out of the hole past her.

"She's out of her mind," Cauthrien muttered to herself, but she caught and held her breath, waiting. After a minute, Elilia's blue boots backed back out of the hole, followed by her legs, her hips, her torso. When her head and arms at last emerged she spoke irritably to Cauthrien.

"Lend me a hand, dammit."

Spurred to action, Cauthrien knelt and helped her drag the bloodsoaked body of her husband out of the dragon's throat. His enormous pauldrons stuck him fast in the hole and Elilia and Cauthrien had to enlarge it, Cauthrien using the longsword Elilia retrieved from inside. Finally they got him out into the open air, but it was clear that he was not breathing.

"Healer! I need a healer here!" Elilia screamed. With feverish intensity, she tore at the straps that held his armor on and peeled him out of it. She then pounded on his chest, hoping to shock him awake. A mage came running up, staff in hand, but did not act immediately. "What in the blue bloody fuck are you waiting for?" she screamed at him.

"Does he have a heartbeat?" the mage asked.

"What?" Elilia screamed.

"If he doesn't have a heartbeat, you're doing the right thing," the mage said. "If he does have a heartbeat, move out of the way."

Elilia stopped beating her husband and placed her hand flat on his chest. "There's a beat," she said. She scrambled back out of the way and let the mage move in. He made a complicated gesture with his hands over the supine body and cast a spell that forced the blood in Loghain's lungs out through his mouth and nose. The sudden void shocked his respiratory system into response, and he breathed again, raggedly. His eyes fluttered open.

"Damn you, don't you ever get eaten by a dragon again, do you hear me?" Elilia scolded as she used her handkerchief to mop some of the gore off his face. Loghain struggled to sit up and she helped him climb shakily to his feet. Then she placed both hands on his cheeks and kissed him, to the loud cheers of the surviving soldiers.

In his muddled, confused mind, Loghain knew there was some reason why she ought not to do that. He could not for the life of him figure out what it was until…

_Oh yeah…that…_

His blood-abused stomach rebelled, turned over, and disgorged itself. He vomited directly into Elilia's mouth.

* * *

**A/N: **To say that I had doubts about this would be an understatement. I realize this is a wild hair, but the aftermath is something I've really been looking forward to dealing with. The dragon itself was never the goal.


	75. Chapter 75

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Six: And Then Everything Went Pear-Shaped**

_Eighth day: she grew as in her mouth they spew._

Even as she retched and vomited, Elilia heard Hespith's wretched rhyme again. She curled up in a ball on the snowy ground and trembled with reaction, both to the hot blood-bile she'd swallowed and the dread of memory. There was but one fate Elilia Cousland feared, and that was the fate of the Broodmother.

"Elilia, darling, I'm sorry, I couldn't help it," Loghain groaned out through his own discomfort. The blood was fire in his veins and though he'd vomited twice more he could not rid himself of it entirely. Worse, in his head rang the sound of derisive laughter. The dragon wasn't finished with him yet.

_You think you have won, Little Hero? I shall teach you differently._

The dragon's great jaws opened wide and everyone who was able scrambled away. But it was only a reflex action: the dragon's final breath came out in a guttural death rattle and the massive body relinquished its tenacious grip on life. But that final breath was powerful, and tore the Veil asunder. Demons poured through the rip and set upon the soldiers, who rallied to this new threat with well-trained ease.

Inside Loghain, however, another battle was raging. He felt the dragon's presence, powerful, overwhelming, trying to take over his body and mind. He fought back, but what chance did he truly stand against something so immense and incorporeal?

Great wing beats heralded the arrival of another dragon. Even before its rear legs touched the ground it was changing, and in a moment it was gone, replaced by a tall, stately, warrior woman of elder years. She ignored the demons and dropped to one knee beside Loghain. With her hands on his shoulders, she spoke low in his ear.

"Fight. It's not as big as it seems. All that is attacking you now is that small piece of the dragon you ingested when you swallowed its blood, not the whole. If it succeeds it will rise again in you, just as the Archdemon would rise if it found a darkspawn host, just as it would have done had it found a proper dragon host. A draw would result in your death and the destruction of that last living piece of the dragon, but you can do better than that, I think. Fight, Warrior, and master the dragon."

She stood. "Now, I must see to the Veil before the tear becomes more than even _my_ magic can handle."

She raised her hands, and a purple glow suffused them, which spread to her entire body. Loghain fought the creature battling for dominance of his soul, the army fought the demons, Flemeth fought the rip in the Veil, and Elilia battled her own personal demons. Some victories were less certain than others.

When Flemeth had repaired the Veil no more demons could cross over, and Maric's Shield finally took down the last flaming Rage demon. Loghain still lay prostrate upon the ground, hands covering his head, while an epic battle for control raged within him.

"Leave him be," Flemeth commanded when Cauthrien would have gone to him. "This is a war he must win on his own."

_You cannot defeat me, Little Hero. I am greater than you can imagine._

_Then we _both_ die here today. You'll not get your way today, Beast._

It was a test of will against will, and if there was one thing Loghain had in spades it was will - a will so great that demons could not overpower him and mages accused him of being apostate because of it. The witch said he could win this fight? He believed her.

_The witch is a fool, and you as well for listening to her. She only wishes to use you to amuse herself in her perpetual boredom. She does not care whether you live or die, only that your struggles are enjoyable to watch. She will watch you writhe like a beetle on a pin and she will cackle._

_Don't give a damn what amuses her. If she finds it funny, more power to her: you _end_ today, regardless._

The pain was excruciating, but what was pain to a man who'd built his very life upon it? Fire and claws tore at his heart, his body, his mind. He would gain some ground - he could feel the beast retreat inside of him - and just as suddenly he would be pushed back again himself. He began to fear that he would lose, not just his life but his soul. He understood now the purpose of the Grey Warden in a way he never had previously, better perhaps than they understood themselves. Grey Wardens had fighting spirits and strong souls, else they would have perished in the Joining. They had the will to resist not only the killing power of the Taint but the immense power of whatever small piece of the Archdemon they took into themselves when they drank the blood of its felled sibling in that first ritual That blood called to the fallen Archdemon to rejoin and be whole again within it. Because they could resist that joining in a way the darkspawn could not they stopped the rebirth, but died in the process, too weak to master it completely. Loghain was suffering the same fate now.

And then another thought struck him. A very simple thought, one single name, actually. Elilia. One name that summed up everything he had to live for. The upwelling of heart that occurred when he thought of her was not in the least voluntary and not in the least something the dragon's blood could defend itself against. Like a sandcastle beneath a tsunami, its last defenses were washed away. It was not gone, but it was changed. Mastered.

Loghain was whole, but wholly what? He certainly didn't feel as he had.

"You are more than you have been," Flemeth said, as if in answer to his unspoken question, "and less than you may become. It will be interesting to watch as you learn what lies in store for you."

He had no time for the witch's riddles or amusement. With what strength remained to him, he stripped off his greaves and crawled to the river's edge. When he plunged into the icy water, steam rose off of it. The cool was refreshing compared to the burn of his blood. When, after a very long interval, he finally pulled himself back out of the water, he found Seanna at Elilia's side and his wife still curled up on the ground, moaning.

"Is she going to be all right?" he said, in a voice hoarse and strange to his own ears.

"She's not badly hurt," Seanna said. "I can't seem to reach her, though. It's like she's trapped in a nightmare."

"She might be." The Veil was sundered, after all: it was possible his wife's mind was trapped in the Fade, locked in a spirit's torture chamber. He reached for her and touched her shoulders. No more than that, and she jerked away from him like there was a shock of lightning between them.

"_Get away from me!" _she screamed, and his heart sank into the pit of his gut. Obediently he withdrew himself to a safe distance and watched as Seanna carefully worked her magical healing on Elilia. He did not - _quite_ - understand what was happening, but he knew the source. He had vomited directly into her mouth, and she had swallowed some of it. Quite apart from the fact that she was probably feeling at least slightly the way he felt right now, there was something sinister connected with vomit and the darkspawn and the monstrosities known as Broodmothers, something he wasn't fully apprized of. Elilia knew but would not speak of it much. He had gathered from what little she did say that it was traumatic, to say the least.

He wasn't a darkspawn. Wasn't even Tainted any longer. Hopefully she would calm down once she remembered that. Once the taste in her mouth faded and the burn in her blood became a bad memory.

Another mage came up to him and began to work spells upon him. Until the moment they suddenly cleared, he had not even noticed the dull pain in his ears. "Burst your ear drums," the mage said, more to himself than his patient. "I bet that feels better, doesn't it?" Sounded better, too. The dragon's voice and the witch's, too, were all or mostly inside his head and were as clear as ever, but once the sounds of soldiers and the world came back to clarity he recognized how muffled they'd been. He'd probably come within a hair's breadth of losing his hearing altogether.

Cauthrien gave him back his sword. "Well done, Ser," she said, with a grin. "Another one for the history books."

"And have it recorded for all time that I was a dragon's lunch? I'd sooner the fewer who knew of this the better."

Cauthrien merely smiled and did not state the obvious fact that there was no stopping such a story from spreading. By the time they made it back to Denerim it would probably already have made it there ahead of them, such was the speed of a good yarn. Varric would be sorry he missed out.

It was a long, cold march back to Denerim. The victory had cost less than he'd feared - only half a dozen soldiers perished, and all of them in the dragon's initial assault - but Elilia still would not speak to nor look at him. Loghain marched at the head of the column, she straggled along in the rear, attended to by Seanna. Perhaps she was still feeling the effects of the blood she'd swallowed. Loghain certainly was. His eyes, particularly, burned white-hot behind his often-closed lids, and even the habitually overcast early spring days were too bright. Finally, in camp for the night, he could stand it no longer and sent for a mage.

"Your pupils are badly dilated," she said, "which explains why its been too bright for you. Let me see what I can do about that." Blue magic glowed from her fingers, bright but almost instantly soothing.

"That should be better…oh my."

"What?" It was not pleasant when a healer mage made that "whoops" face.

"Your pupils, they…they…"

"Spit it out, Woman."

"Were they always like that?"

"Always like _what?"_

"Do you have a shaving mirror, Ser? I think you should see this for yourself."

No, he did not own a shaving mirror. He sighed and irritably shouted for Cauthrien. The Bann ducked into the tent, looked up, and stopped short. "Dear Maker, Ser, your _eyes!"_

"Do you have a mirror I could have the loan of?" Loghain asked, through gritted teeth. She reached into the map pocket of her belt with trembling hands and withdrew the small shaving mirror she used to ensure the tail of her hair was always neat and tidy. She passed it over without another word.

The color of the eyes that stared back at him from his reflection was the same pale grayish blue as always. His pupils, however, were now slit up and down like a cat's…

…or a dragon's.


	76. Chapter 76

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Seven: Shut Out**

_I think you should go._

_Go? Where?_

_I don't care. Anywhere. To the temple of Andraste - you wanted to fess up to the Guardian about the extra ashes you took, right? Just…go._

_Will I be welcome to return?_

_I don't know._

Loghain wet his face and hung his head over the basin, dripping. Go, she told him. Don't come back, she'd implied. Maker.

He looked up into the mirror that hung on the wall above. Monster's eyes stared back at him. They fit the face, and the soul beneath it. A monster: now it was merely official. He cocked his fist and slammed it into his reflection, shattering it. Blood and glass dropped into the sink, and his blue dragon eyes mocked him from the dozen or so shards that remained stuck in the frame. Everything he'd ever done, he'd done for the concept of _home_. He'd sacrificed everything for _home_: he'd allowed his father to die, he punished his body to the point of brutality and beyond, he'd even precipitated a civil war because his fears of invasion were too strong to let him see the true, inner threat. And never once did he ever feel that he _had _a home. Not until Elilia.

Elilia. The woman was nothing if not a shock to the system. Their first comradeship, during the Blight, was tainted by his prior actions and he expected nothing from it but to be sent to his death against the Archdemon. He met her every friendly gesture with doubt and suspicion, seeing her forgiveness as a lie, until he realized that the unvoiced accusations he saw hovering about her like a swarm of bees were his own self-recriminations. His surprise to discover she was offering honest friendship was greater than the surprise he'd felt long ago when he'd realized he had somehow become friends with a chattering boy-King.

But it was friendship, nothing more, and when she asked - not ordered, _asked_ - him to sleep with the Marsh Witch as part of some live-saving ritual he did it, against his own reservations, because she was his friend and she'd _asked_. Never once did he even consider the possibility that she might one day be his lover as well as his friend. He would have laughed long and bitterly if anyone suggested it.

Seeing her again after so many years, he wasn't looking for and certainly was not expecting her love. When she offered herself before the Battle of Sulcher he accepted with no thought there would be anything more to it than a single night - he did not, at that time, believe that there would be more than a single night _left_ to him. But since that night she'd given him a life and a home he'd never known. And now…

It didn't take long to prepare. A single man who knows how to live off the land requires little more than a bedroll and a blade. He left the fine Arcdemon armor and the matching, gold-inlaid shield and wore the same dusty old leather vest and coat he'd worn more than a year ago when he shared an apple in the Denerim low market with a boy prince. With a bandaged hand and his new spectacles in place, he went to the palace to say his hellos and farewells to his grandchildren.

Duncan and Little Anora - he could hardly think of her as a "Baby" any longer - looked upon his new attire with interest. Anora was clearly enchanted by her reflection in the twin silverite discs, while Duncan wanted very much to know how he could see through them.

"Enchantment," Loghain said. "My friends Dworkin and Tarquin made them for me."

"Why do you wear them?"

"I have…I have an eye problem," Loghain said.

"May I look through them?"

He couldn't say no. He closed his eyes and kept them closed while the boy took the spectacles off his face and put them on his own. He did not open them until the glasses were again hiding his new flaw. He did not want to give the children nightmares.

"Grandfather, why are you dressed for traveling?" Duncan asked.

"Because I'm going on a journey."

"_What? _But you just got _back_ from a journey. This is the first we've gotten to see you and already you're _leaving?" _The boy held his fists out and shook them in anger and frustration. "Do you _never_ sit still?"

The boy's reaction startled a laugh from Loghain, though it saddened him. It was, as they say, a fair cop. "Not much, I'm afraid," he said.

"Must you really go, Grandfather?"

Must he? No, not really. There was certainly nothing demanding he return to the temple on the mountain and make restitution for his misdeed, if misdeed it was. Even if Elilia never relented, never took him back, he was not wholly bereft of family. He had these children, and he had his daughter, and even his son-in-law no longer seemed to completely resent his survival. But how long could he stay here, with them, before he found himself very much in the way? He had a habit of stepping on people's toes. No; it was better to leave, allow distance and time to work their magic, and return to the hope, slender though it might be, that everything would be all right. Elilia needed space, and he suspected she had a good reason for it. If he was correct he had but two wishes: that both came through it well and strong, and that she allowed him to share in the life they had created.

Ah, if wishes were horses…

"The journey is not absolutely imperative, my boy, but I fear I really must go all the same: Denerim isn't big enough for me at the moment."

Prince Duncan gave a long-suffering sigh. "Well, all right, if you really must go. But come back soon, all right? I haven't had you all that long and it feels like its been mostly goodbyes."

He hugged his grandson tight. "I know. I'm sorry."

It was several hours more before he managed to tear himself away from the children. It would put him on the road late, but what did that matter? He was hardly afraid to travel in the dark and his night vision was good even before his eyes went wonky. It was considerably better, now.

"Come, Champion, let's be off," he said, and the dog fell into heel behind him.

The corridor outside the children's rooms was filled with people. Champion Hawke, her sister Bethany, the blood mage Merrill, the white-haired elven knight Ser Fenris, Varric, Laz, and the dog Paragon. They looked dressed for traveling. Lounging posture straightened to attention when he appeared.

"So, Boss - where we headed?" Laz Brosca asked as she shouldered her pack.

"We?" Loghain said in surprise.

"His Majesty asked me to accompany you, General," Ser Fenris said.

"And _Her_ Majesty asked me," Bethany Hawke said.

"I go where Bethany goes," Champion Hawke said.

"And I go with Hawke," Merrill said.

"I'm not missing out on another good story," Varric said, and patted his pack, which had the squared-off appearance of containing a large, and presumably blank, book.

"Paragon an' me are just along for the company, Boss," Laz said.

"This is a bloody _expedition_ - I was just going for a _ride, _is all."

"Uh huh. Yeah. Right." That was Varric.

"Men like you don't go on _rides, _Elder," Merrill said. "They go on _adventures. _I think _I'm _about ready for a new one."

"I can't feed you all," Loghain warned.

"Their Majesties provided us with provisions to last us a good while, if we're careful, and I'm a good hunter, even if I can't shoot pigeons and squirrels," Hawke said.

"What about horses? I'm not providing those."

"The Crown was kind enough to make the loan of horses and ponies for us, as well."

"What? Is Anora afraid I'll jump in the river or something?"

"Or something," Varric said.

"She said a man like you always needs a competent healer at hand, and that Teyrna Elilia's friend Seanna was busy taking care of Her Grace. She's just worried for your well-being, Ser," Bethany said.

"And what of you?" Loghain turned upon Fenris. "Is Alistair looking out for my well-being, now, too? Does he think me too old and feeble to look after myself?"

"I did not think to ask His Majesty why he wished me to come along, General," Fenris said. "If you would like me to, I shall."

Loghain sniffed, sighed, and then snorted. "All right, if you're coming come along then, but you'd better not fall behind or I'll leave you there."

In truth he was glad to have the company. This gaggle of idiots would keep him well occupied and he wouldn't have time to think. Thank the Maker.


	77. Chapter 77

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Eight: Honnleath**

Elilia came to see him off.

The hope that surged up in him was quickly quelled by the fact that she did not actually look at him. She stood by the shoulder of Bloody Big Horse and thrust a piece of parchment and a small object into his hand. It appeared to be a cylindrically-cut gemstone of low quality, imbued with lyrium runes.

"Here," she said.

"What's this?"

"A control rod. Got it from an unlucky merchant named Felix the Fat Boy or something like that years ago. Supposed to be a golem to go along with it, somewhere down south in a village called Honnleath. I never went but it shouldn't be too far out of your way. You know the place?"

"I've never been there, either, but I know of it," he said. "I'm fairly certain it was destroyed in the Blight, though."

"Golem might still be there," she said. "Could be worth a look. The activation words are on the parchment."

He leaned down toward her and spoke in a low voice. "Can't you look at me?" he pleaded, but she turned away.

"Take care," she said, and left. He took it for a good sign but did not hope for much more than that she would be somewhat sad if he died.

_Blessed Andraste, I know we haven't had much truck with each other up 'til now,_ he prayed. _Please, if you've any love for me at all, don't let _her _love for me die. I don't have much beyond that, and without it I am less than nothing and worse than a monster._

He clicked his tongue and Bloody Big Horse walked on, and the party embarked.

Loghain had only the vaguest notion where the village of Honnleath lay, but he knew all the many places where it did not, and that was enough to find the proper road, an unmarked, pitted, and overgrown track in the former Blightlands leading southwest off the Imperial Highway. In the remains of Lothering, the party came upon Master Wade and his assistant Herren, who with Archdemon-bone saw blades were busily chopping up the remains of the giant golden dragon.

They hailed the passersby, and Loghain brought Bloody Big Horse to a stop before the giant corpse. "Looks like slow going," he said.

"Dreadfully," Herren said.

"But just imagine what can be done with such glorious material! Why, my heart is like to burst from joy," Master Wade said. "The Crown has kindly allowed me a generous share of the scale and bone to work with in exchange for crafting the equipment needed to dismember the beast. They even let me have first pick. What an opportunity!"

"Yes. Splendid," Herren said, and rolled his eyes.

"Alistair should be able to sell the rest for a bloody fortune: golden dragon scale will fetch a pretty price with the rich fops who like that sort of thing. Do you think the stuff is workable?"

"Oh, yes - not without difficulties, of course, but that's half the fun!" Wade said. "Of course, any smith who wants to do it will also have to purchase Archdemon bone in order to craft the tools that will be necessary."

"Ha! Another good money-making scheme for the Crown."

Wade suddenly seemed to notice Loghain's attire. "My Lord - why are you not wearing the armor I fashioned for you? Does it not suit? Oh, I knew it - it's dreadful, isn't it? The fittings are wrong, and the leather is splotchy."

"No, Wade, the armor is fine. My boot got a bit crushed in the dragon's jaws: I hadn't found time to bring it to you for repairs." In truth he didn't care about the boot. The armor was heavy and he did not care to burden himself with it, not on a long, relatively peaceful journey.

Wade tossed his head and a hand. "Throw it away. I shall make you new armor from _this_ magnificent beast."

Loghain saw a vision of himself in shining golden armor. "Thank you, Wade, but I'd prefer a simple repair, if possible. Blue is more…my color."

Wade peered at him. "I suppose you are a winter at that. Still it seems a shame not to have some use to put this creature to for the man who slay it. Let me make a sword for you - a beautiful, fantastical golden sword."

The Archdemon bone sword was the most amazing weapon he'd ever wielded. The idea of going one better had appeal. Though Herren frantically pantomimed "Please refuse" at him, he said, "All right. If you can make a better sword than you did for me before, I'll happily pay."

Herren threw up his hands in despair. Wade tossed head and hand again. "Bosh. The payment is in being able to work with such fine material."

"I was afraid he'd say that," Herren said.

* * *

As Loghain had feared, the village of Honnleath was nothing more than a burnt-out memory, but the stone golem remained, steadfast in the center of what once must have been the village square. He hadn't seen many golems in his life, but this one was rather on the small side, which is to say that it was about his height or slightly taller.

"Damn. That's the ugliest statue I've ever seen," Varric said, chuckling. "I would think it'd scare the piss out of anyone that used to live here."

"I feel rather sorry for it," Loghain said. "It's covered in bird shit."

He sought out and found the village well, still covered and with rotting rope still intact. He pulled up a bucket of water and splashed it over the golem's shoulders. A decade of dried-on guano was not easy to wash away without cloth for scrubbing, but the construct looked considerably better. Loghain held out the control rod and spoke the words printed on the parchment.

"Dulef gar."

Nothing happened. "I guess it's broken?" Merrill said.

Laz shook her head. "I think you got bum words, Boss - that wasn't dwarven."

"Perhaps Elilia wrote it down wrong," he said. "Pity. I don't suppose you know the _proper _words, do you?"

"Sorry. I haven't got a clue."

"Varric?"

"Don't look at me, Big Bull. I don't even _speak _proper Dwarven."

A high, girlish giggle split the air. _"I _know the proper words," a little girl's voice singsonged. The giggle came again.

"A child? Here?" Bethany said, surprised.

"It could not be," Fenris said. "Be wary: there is foul magic afoot."

A little blonde head poked out from a burnt-out wreck that once was a house. "Why are you trying to wake up Shale?" she asked. "He's a bad golem: he killed my Grandpapa." And then she laughed, as though that were the funniest thing she'd ever said.

"And who might…you be?" Loghain asked, cautiously. There was certainly a strange feeling in his head when he looked at the girl. Almost as if he couldn't quite see her just exactly right.

"Amalia. And I know who _you_ are, too. _You're_ the Hero of River Dane. You fought with Grandpapa _waaaaaaay_ back when." And she giggled again and came skipping out of hiding.

"Oh, what an adorable little girl," Bethany said. The others, even Fenris, seemed utterly taken in by her dimpled cheeks and innocent aura, but something kept tugging at Loghain's mind, insisting that there ought not to be any little girls in Honnleath any longer.

"I have fought with many people, and _alongside _a few as well. Who was your grandfather?"

"His name was Wilhelm. He was a mage. That was his golem."

Startled, Loghain looked at the golem. The one he remembered was nearly eleven feet tall, while this one couldn't be seven feet. Could Wilhelm's magic shrink a golem? And had the golem really killed him as the girl said?

"Then your wording was correct after all, for I fought both with and alongside your grandfather for many years," he said, almost despite himself. What in the Maker's name was going on here?

"If you want Shale to wake up, you're going to need the magic words," Amalia said. "I'll tell you them, if you agree to take me with you when you leave. It's boring here: there's no one to play with except Shale, and he's no fun at all."

"Of course we must take her with us, right? I mean, she can't stay here; she'd die," Merrill said, but her voice came slowly and of all the companions only she seemed doubtful as well as Loghain.

"Yes, of course we shall," Loghain said. In his mind he thought, _Wait; what, now?_

The little girl came closer. Her eyes were violet, and seemed almost to glow. "The magic words are _'Dulen Harn,' _silly-billy," she said.

"Oh, now _that_ makes sense," Laz said, and nodded. Her eyes seemed glazed and unfocused.

The little girl was almost within arm's reach now. "We're going to be great friends, I just know it," she said, and Loghain heard at last the deeper, darker voice that underlay the childish piping. Terror awoke in his breast as he realized he and his companions were in the thrall of something old and evil. Something shifted in his throat, and without conscious volition he opened his mouth and spit. Liquid fire spumed out of his mouth in a bubbling, blazing inferno. The flames engulfed the little girl and she screamed as she burned, but the screams were the frustrated rage of a demon thwarted, not the agony of a child.

"I _knew_ there was something wrong with that child!" Merrill said.

"A mage, consumed by a demon. Typical." That was Fenris.

"I'm going to close my eyes and pretend none of that really just happened," Varric said. "I don't need the nightmares."

_She was a demon, not a little girl, _Loghain thought, staring at the blackened, unrecognizable remains. _I killed a demon, not a little girl. Not a little girl. Not a little girl._

"Are you all right, Your Grace?" Bethany asked. "You're not…burnt?"

"What? Oh. No. No, I'm fine."

He tore his eyes from the ashes. "That was…not something I intended to do," he said, with a note of apology in his voice. "I didn't know I could."

"It's the dragon's blood you swallowed," Merrill said. "It's given you the dragon's power."

"Blood magic," Fenris said, with a curled lip.

"_Accidental _blood magic, Fenris," Hawke said. "He certainly didn't intend to drink dragon's blood."

"That doesn't make it any less unsavory."

"Elilia spoke to me of a cult of dragon-worshippers who lived on the mountain we're going to," Loghain said. "They drank the blood of their High Dragon to become what they called Reavers. I suppose this is something like that, although she never mentioned any of them breathing fire. I would venture to guess that's because I swallowed the blood of a different kind of dragon."

"A _bigger_ dragon," Varric added. "You're awfully nonchalant about it, Big Bull."

"I'm trying to be. I just roasted what _appeared_ to be a little girl alive. _I_ don't need the nightmares."

He stepped up to the golem again. "Might as well get what we came for."

"Do you truly think the words that creature gave you were the right ones?" Fenris asked.

"One way to find out. _Dulen harn."_

For half an instant it seemed as though it did not work. Then, with a groan of long-disused joints, the golem came to life.

And spoke.

"My goodness, I've been stuck here for ever so long. How strange it feels to be able to move again! It has my control rod? How strange, I feel so disconnected. Quickly, order me to do something."

* * *

**A/N:** I was so looking forward to finding Shale! If you want to know why Elilia hung on to the control rod and words for a decade without going to find it the answer is truthfully that I didn't have the dlc when I started writing this. If you need a better plot reason, she was afraid to go off on a wild goose chase in the middle of a Blight and just kind of forgot about it afterward; she was reminded again when she realized she needed to keep Loghain away from her for a little while longer than if he just went to the temple of Andraste and back.


	78. Chapter 78

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Nine: Shale**

"Quickly, order me to do something."

Loghain shook his jumbled thoughts clear, and his eye landed on a docile robin sitting on a crooked, broken fence post nearby. "All right. Kill that bird," he said.

"Well of course I feel compelled to do _that," _the golem said. "That's not a fair test. Order me to pick it up and carry it."

Loghain shrugged one shoulder in a haphazard gesture. "Very well, then. Pick it up and carry it," he said, thinking the golem meant the bird.

"And…nothing. I feel no compulsion to obey whatsoever. Odd. I suppose that must mean that the control rod is…broken?" The golem swiveled its oddly small, squat head and looked about. It's lyrium-blue eyes came to rest upon Loghain again and its voice took on a tone of disgust. "And what is it that holds my control rod now, anyway? Not a mage, I should think, and yet it roasted the little demon like a pig on a spit. What manner of creature is it?"

"It? Do you mean me? I'm a man - a human. In…complicated circumstances," Loghain said.

"Well, at least it is not a mage."

"I agree wholeheartedly with that assessment," Fenris said.

"Great. An anti-magic golem," Bethany said.

"My last master was a mage - a whiny, shrill, noisome little creature. 'Golem, do this; golem, do that. Golem, do be a dear and squish that bandit. Carry me, golem, for I tire of walking.'" The golem shook its head. "I'm told I killed it. I do not recall doing so, but I hope it is true. I expect I must have smiled while it squished."

It looked at Loghain again. "It was kind enough to wash some of the foulness off of me, and it roasted the annoying little brat that teased me mercilessly ever since the village died. It is perhaps not such a bad creature. Without the compulsion of the control rod, and with no very clear memory of what and who I am, I find myself very much at loose ends. It must have had some plan in mind for me, so tell me, what did it want with a golem?"

"_It _can think of myriad uses for a golem, all of which are moot when the golem in question is a thinking creature of free mind and will."

"But what _are_ they? I have no purpose and no direction: if it cannot give me a clue, then I do not know what to do."

Loghain crossed his arms over his chest, threw one leg out, planted his heel in the dirt, and cocked his head to the side. "If I'd been stuck standing stock still in a town square for a decade or longer, I'd imagine that the first thing _I'd_ want to do is kill every bloody bird in Creation."

"I like the way it thinks!" the golem said.

"There's a city, some miles to the northeast of here, called Denerim. It's been having some problems with demon-possessed pigeons. If you've a mind for vengeance, folks would be mighty grateful if you started there."

"But how could it kill birds?" Fenris asked. "It's made of stone, and moves rather slowly. Makes a good amount of noise, too."

"Strategy, Ser Fenris," Loghain said. "Pretend to be a statue, and take the little bloody buggers by surprise when they perch. It might not work forever but long enough to put a dent in the population, I should think."

"Oh ho, it is a creature after my own heart!" the golem said. "Is it going to this Denerim? I should follow it there, if so."

"It is, but not, perhaps, for some time."

"Nevertheless, it will go there eventually? I think I shall follow it all the same. I should be quite interested to see what it roasts next. My name, if it cares for such things, is Shale, by the way."

"Loghain Mac Tir," he said, and stuck out his hand. Shale looked at it, and then at him.

"I do not understand this gesture. What is it doing with its hand?"

"Offering it. To shake. That's what people do when they're introduced to one another."

"Is it? I do believe I recall seeing something of the sort somewhere along the line. Is it not afraid that I would crush its hand to powder in mine?"

"Will you?"

"I do not know, for I have never been made this offer before."

Loghain looked at the golem's huge stone hand for a moment, evincing some doubt, but then squared his shoulders and thrust his hand out again. "Wouldn't be the first time I've had a broken hand."

The golem shook hands with him, rather gingerly. "That is a strange custom, to say the least. I'm not sure I understand the purpose, but if the niceties have been observed, perhaps it will be so kind as to allow me a few minutes of time to collect some things?"

"You have possessions?" Loghain said in surprise.

"Not exactly. My late, unlamented master kept a laboratory in his cellar. The house is gone but the cellar may still exist - it went quite deep into the bedrock. Doubtless it would be dangerous for squishy creatures such as it to enter, but I daresay I will be safe enough provided I do not fall into the well. My master used to experiment upon me with what he called _augmentation crystals_. The experiments were quite disagreeable but the crystals were bloody useful, and rather slimming. I expect some of them might still remain down cellar."

"Well, if you want them you'd better get them. We'll be setting up camp down by the river: we squishy creatures need to rest for the night."

"It is very inferior in that regard, yes," the golem said, and stomped off in the direction of a husked-out tower.

* * *

"Fire breath and a talking golem. What a story this will make!" Varric said. "Ha! Nobody would ever believe it."

Bethany stirred the cookpot. "I can't say much for its attitude. Why does it keep calling Teyrn Loghain 'it?'"

"Possibly because that's all anyone has ever called _it," _Loghain said.

"Well, what _else_ would you call it?" Hawke said.

"Hmph. Six and a half feet tall and made of solid stone? I'd call it _'Ser,'" _Varric said, and chuckled. "Very obsequiously."

"By the voice, I'd guess it was a lady," Merrill said. "It's got rather ladylike hips, too."

"That godless thing is no _woman," _Fenris said, with a snort.

"Actually, female was my guess, too," Loghain said. "It's the voice of a woman with a heavy drinking and smoking habit, but a woman's voice all the same. To my ear, at any rate. Don't suppose it actually does have a gender per se."

The golem stomped up from the village, making the horses restive. "Talking about me behind my back?" it said. "That's all right, I'm quite accustomed to it. No one has ever truly spoken to me directly except to bark commands at me."

It dumped its armload of crystals on the ground at Loghain's feet. "If it will be so good as to help me arrange these attractively I should be most grateful to it."

"Don't you want to clean up, first?" Loghain said. "Hot water should take care of the rest of the shit on your shoulders. Hot water and a little elbow grease."

"It does show remarkable consideration. I wonder if it is buttering me up for something? No matter: butter away. I shall be quite happy to be clean."

Water was heated, and a washcloth was sacrificed for the cause. Loghain scrubbed the places the golem couldn't reach on its own. "We were just wondering, Shale," he said, "whether you consider yourself a he or a she? Or does it not make any difference to you?"

"I have no recollection of ever considering myself either one," Shale said. "Does it make a difference to it and its companions? I suppose it does. Well, I have had generally rather bad experience with squishy creatures of both genders, but I seem to have picked up the notion that the ones that call themselves 'she' are often rather more sensible. With the exception of my late, unlamented master's late, unlamented wife. If it must think of me as a he or a she, think of me as a she."

The golem picked up a bright orange crystal and swapped it out for one of the dull, broken blue ones on its chest. "I believe that while I was still frozen in place I heard it say that it formerly was the acquaintance of my late, unlamented master. Is this true?"

"Yes. We both served King Maric during the Rebellion. You were there, too - do you not remember?"

"I remember a great many people, many of whom were for squishing and many of whom were for not squishing. _It_ must have been one of the not-squishing ones. I'm not sure I remember it personally, however. Was it the chatty one with the yellow hair that absolutely under no circumstances would _ever _shut up?"

Loghain's lips quirked in a lopsided grin. "No, that was Maric."

"Oh. Well, was it the dark, caustic one with the fine line in dry sarcasm?"

"That…does sound like me."

"Ah. Well, that's not so bad, then. As I remember it, it wasn't quite so squishy as the others. And it squished a lot of people in its own right."

"I do like to squish things."

"Then we have something in common. How lovely."

"You have a fine line in dry sarcasm yourself, Shale. Tell me: how is it you are so much smaller than I remember? How does one shrink a golem, if you don't mind my asking?"

Shale made a sound like unto a snort. "With a chisel. And a lot of nerve. My late, unlamented master's late, unlamented wife did not like me stomping around her house at eleven feet tall. She did not like it at _six and a half_ _feet, _either. Tell me, if it doesn't mind my asking, why does it wear mirrors over its eyes? I do not recall its doing so in the past."

"I have an eye problem," Loghain said, almost mumbling the excuse.

"Well I must say I approve. It is rather better when I must look at it to be able to admire myself in reflection rather than to have to focus on the squishy bits. Will it help me with my crystals, now?"

Bethany stood. "May I?" she asked. "I think they're quite lovely, and they look very well on you. My name is Bethany; it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Shale."

She stuck out her hand. Shale regarded it with distaste. "More touching. Wonderful. And it is a mage, is it not? Better still. At least it shows some taste."


	79. Chapter 79

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy: Heartsick**

_It was cold, and dark, and it smelled of damp stone and moss. She lay in the blackness feeling her body change, bloating, swelling, altering. Soon, she knew, she would birth the first of her monstrosities. Before that could happen, hopefully, the madness that grew in her mind would eclipse all conscious thought, a blissful oblivion of self. She did not want to think any longer, she did not want to exist. If she still had the wherewithal to do so she would end herself before she could unleash her horrors upon the world._

_Her chest hurt as two extra rows of mammary glands grew in, the better to suckle her twisted, atrocious spawn. Her belly swelled, grew, rooted to the earth as her legs became the first of grasping tentacles mired in the meat soup of the tainted earth. Her screams echoed as the cries of a monster in the Deep Roads._

Elilia awoke herself by jerking her body so hard she fell out of bed. She scrambled to the wash basin on all fours, splashed her face, and then leaned her forehead against the cool marble rim. Perhaps these dreams would not come so often if she had Loghain's strong arms about her at night. She missed him, but she could not look at him, not now, not with her shame. When she'd conquered this enemy, this irrational fear, then she would beg his forgiveness and ask him to take her back. She hoped he would be able to understand. She hoped someday that she would understand, too.

One hand moved as if on its own to her belly. She was, she fancied, starting to bubble out there a bit. _I should have just told him,_ she thought. _I should have told him he was right. He said that this might be too hard on me, and it is. It is._

There were things she could do, potions she could drink, that would sweep this problem out of her life in an instant, but though the idea had some attraction she was honor-bound to have this child. She had to learn to cope, to forget the horrors of the past. Once the child - the perfectly normal, _human_ child - was born, things would be easier. When that day came she would see that her fears were groundless. She was not bearing tainted, twisted spawn. She bore a child with the blood of heroes, and boundless potential. It would be her son, or her daughter, and she would love it with a fierce, prideful love.

By the time Loghain returned she would have the problem under control. That was non-negotiable. He could never know how she struggled with her own mind, how part of her wanted to kill the child they had created, and all because she feared she would become the horror she had witnessed in the Deep Roads. She'd bought herself a little more time, hopefully, by sending him to Honnleath on a wild golem chase. And if he actually returned with a golem? How much fun would that be! Of course she knew, as he did not, the secret of golem construction. That lessened the potential fun more than somewhat.

_Just please, Maker, let him forgive me for this. Don't make me lose the one man who could ever truly understand me._

* * *

"Is it thinking of jumping in?"

Shale's voice startled him so badly he nearly _fell_ in. Loghain stood up and turned around, putting his back to the broad, swift-moving river. "Of course not."

"Hmm. Well, it certainly _looked_ poised for a swim. I wouldn't recommend it, myself. Why is it not sleeping, like its squishy friends?"

Loghain glanced at the quiet campsite. Champion lay in front of his tent, legs moving restlessly as she chased dream-rabbits. _"It _doesn't sleep all that often, Shale."

"Well, perhaps it is more golem-like than I had first thought. Perhaps it will indulge me with a conversation, if it does not require sleep?"

He jerked his head in the direction of the road out of camp. "What do you want to talk about, Shale?" he asked, as he and the golem walked out of earshot of the sleepers.

"Purpose. What is _its_ purpose, if I might ask? Where is it going?"

"There's a temple, on a mountain, not too far to the north and west of here," he said. "I took something from that temple that I probably shouldn't have. It's been a great blessing, but I think I need to put it back where I found it and ask the Maker's forgiveness."

"This thing it took has been useful, yes?" Shale asked.

"Infinitely."

"Has anyone accused it of theft? Is someone making it put this thing back where it found it?"

"No."

"Is it mad or merely stupid?" Shale asked. Loghain sighed.

"I didn't expect you'd understand, Shale, but it's something I need to do."

"Squishy creatures do have such unfathomable motivations. It has come far from its home, yes? All just to appease someone who evidently does not require appeasement. This Maker is your god, I take it?"

"Yes, the Maker is my god."

"Squishy creatures and their gods," Shale said, and snorted.

"My wife doesn't much believe in gods, either," Loghain said. "I'm sure she thinks me as mad as you do for making this trip, not that she cares for much of anything except to have me out of the way right now."

"It has a wife? Marvelous. And I suppose it has progeny, as well?" Shale said, in her sarcastic voice.

"I have a daughter. A grown daughter, not of my current wife. We have not had children of our own yet."

"Its current wife? It had a wife previously?"

"Yes, long ago. She passed away."

"Was it the one with the sword? _She_ wasn't particularly squishy."

"No. She married the yellow-haired one."

"Oh? Because I have vague memories of it _mooning after her _in the way squishy creatures do."

"I loved her, yes. But she married Maric."

"Oo, so _resentful_ it sounded. It then married some other poor, squishy female, and made her life miserable until the end with its swooning over another's wife?"

"No. I put my love for Rowan aside and loved my wife. Can't say I didn't make her miserable, but it would just be by being the miserable bastard that I am. Whether she was happy or not she died, and now I've proceeded to make another woman miserable."

"And now its current wife wishes nothing further to do with it? She does sound a sensible creature. I should very much like to meet _her."_

"She would like that, too, I should think. She's the one that sent me to find you."

"Oh ho! A woman with a plan! I like her already."

"I hope she allows me to make the introduction, one day."

"It wants back into the bosom of its wife's…er…bosoms?" Shale asked.

"Very much so."

"Then should it not be now at home, making every effort to put itself back in that position?"

"It is giving its wife the space she needs in hopes that absence makes the heart grow _fonder."_

"Ha! I should think rather more _forgetful. _But it shall do as it pleases."

"Yes. That is the major benefit of freedom, as you are no doubt discovering."


	80. Chapter 80

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** I notice I'm not getting email notifications again. Another FF bug?

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-One: Abducted**

Three days, and still silence.

The party camped by a stream not too many miles distant from the clear road that would take them back to Denerim and all the worries that awaited certain among them there. Perhaps that was the main reason why Loghain was so quiet, or perhaps it was his experience at the temple of Andraste. The others had no idea what he'd said, or what had been said to him, inside. They'd waited on the mountaintop, warily eying the sun-bleached skeletal remains of the long-dead high dragon, and Loghain had gone to make his confession alone. Even Shale had not ventured to ask many questions after receiving no answer to the first few.

Shale stood silent sentinel on the edge of camp while the others ate an unhurried breakfast. If all went well, they'd be back in Denerim in not more than four days' time, riding leisurely. What he'd do there, Loghain had no clue. If Elilia still would not see him, there was no particular point in being there at all.

"More porridge, Elder?" Merrill asked him, and he shook his head. He kept thinking he heard people moving in the woods, but the horses weren't reacting, and neither were the dogs. Champion would let him know if someone was approaching the camp long before he could ever pick up a sound. He was just nervous. Jumpy.

Champion picked her head up and started barking about five seconds before a flask shattered on the ground not far from her nose. Billowing clouds of smoke rose from the substance inside. Loghain shot to his feet.

"Get clear," he tried to say, but the choking gas robbed him of speech. Coughing and gasping, he fell to his knees in the dirt. Champion lay as if dead. He saw Ser Fenris gagging and struggling to rise, and Varric and Laz were already down. He did not know if the others were clear or if they were being strangled by this fog as well. The lights went out.

A trio of templars emerged from the woods and surveyed their handiwork. "Got 'em all," the first said. "Nice toss, Smithers."

"Get the horses," the second templar said. "They'll fetch a pretty price, and we won't have to carry this baggage all the way home."

The third templar - Smithers - approached the tethered horses cautiously. Bloody Big Horse stamped his huge front hooves and reared.

"Easy. Easy now. Nice horsie," Smithers said. "Carruthers, I don't think I can handle this beast."

"Maker's breath, Smithers. It's a horse. Show it a firm hand and it falls in line," Carruthers, the first templar, said. He walked over and made a grab for Bloody Big Horse's bridle. Bloody Big Horse reared again, and pulled the templar off his feet. Carruthers let go his grip and sprawled in the dirt, and just managed to roll out of the way as the hooves came thundering down. The second templar laughed at him.

"It's a horse, Carruthers," he mocked. "Show it a firm hand and it'll fall in line."

Carruthers rolled to his feet and brushed himself off. "Leave it," he said. "Take the others. Put the dwarves together on one pony so there's a horse to carry the big one."

"What do we do with the dogs?" the second templar asked.

"Leave them."

"Really? Mabari are awfully valuable, and the good Mother might have a use for them."

"They're bonded to these maleficarum. They'd be more trouble than they're worth. Leave them."

Smithers walked cautiously up to Shale and peered into her impassive face. "What do we do with this thing?" he asked.

"See if you can't find its control rod. A golem is always valuable to the Order."

Smithers and the second templar rummaged through the party's belongings. "Found it!" the second templar said, and pulled the control rod out of Loghain's pack.

"Give it here," Carruthers said, and snatched the device out of his hand. He held it up. "Follow," he commanded Shale. Shale did not move.

"Maybe it's been deactivated?" Smithers said.

"Maybe so. _Dulen harn," _Carruthers attempted. Shale did not move. Carruthers threw down the control rod. "Blast and damnation."

"Must be broken," the second templar said, "or corrupted by blood magic."

"Must be. Leave it, then," Carruthers said, with a sigh. "Bringing back a golem would've meant a promotion, sure as day."

Shale watched, motionless and silent, as the templars tied up their prisoners and loaded them onto the horses and ponies. They led them away, and still she did not move. Bloody Big Horse jerked and strained at his tether. Paragon stirred, and Champion awoke. She gave a startled yelp when she realized her master was gone.

"I expect you are better than I at following trails," Shale said to the dogs. "Lead, beasts. I am most curious to see what lies at the end of this path."

* * *

Seanna finished her examination. "You're not eating enough," she said, as severely as she was capable of.

"I'm eating," Elilia said, sheepishly.

"Not enough. You need to eat a lot more, of the right things, to keep yourself and this baby healthy. So far, everything looks just fine. But you need to eat. How's your appetite? What sort of cravings have you had?"

"Not…any, really," Elilia said. "I guess…I guess my appetite isn't very good."

"That's because you're upset and depressed, not because you're not _hungry," _Seanna said. "Talk to me, please. What is the matter, and why are you so unhappy? You _want_ this child, don't you?"

"I did. I wasn't too sure about my suitability as a mother, but I wanted it."

"Past-tense. You don't want it now? What happened?"

Elilia shook her head. "I _want_ this child. I want _a_ child. A healthy, _human_ child."

Seanna's eyebrows shot into her hairline. "You have some reason to suspect that this child _won't_ be human?"

She shook her head again. "No _sane_ reason."

"Oh? So what about the _in_sane reasons?"

Elilia let out a shuddering breath. "Do you know how the darkspawn are made?" she asked.

"Black City, bad mages, the curse of the Maker, blah-de-blah?" Seanna said. Elilia shook her head.

"No. The _real_ way. The way the blighted bastards are _born."_

She told, then, the truth that she'd discussed with no one else in her life, not even with those who knew it. Seanna sat in stark horror as she listened to the gruesome details of the process by which broodmothers were created.

"The darkspawn…_rape_ women?" she asked.

"I don't know for certain if it's sexual violation or not," Elilia said. "Seems possible_, probable _even. Even if it isn't, it's bad enough, is it not? To be taken away from your home and family, dragged into the dark, beaten, fed abominable flesh and bile, and to spend the rest of your days popping out twisted creatures by the hundreds. You know, I read the account of a Legion of the Dead dwarf once, about something they called a Rock Wraith, which is apparently a demon bound to stone and the corpse of a dead dwarf. He said it was a worse horror even than the broodmothers. Ha. Only a _man_ could know how the broodmothers come to be and still write something as abominably stupid as that. Broodmothers are horror's ultimate quantity."

Seanna sat in shocked silence for a few moments, and then shook herself free of the horror and outrage the story awoke in her. "But…Elilia, you're not even Tainted any longer. There's no reason to believe you're turning into one of these monsters. The baby is human. I can vouch for that, my examination shows a perfectly healthy human fetus. I can even tell you the gender, if you want to know. You're…you're just a pregnant woman. The most natural thing in this world. There's no abomination here."

"I know. I _know. _But part of me…part of me _doesn't _know. Part of me feels like I'm changing."

"Of _course_ you're changing, Elilia. You're pregnant. The body goes through _many_ changes during this time. Listen, you're one of the strongest-willed people I've ever met. You're the _only_ person on this earth who has the strength to convince yourself of the truth of this. The child is human. It's your perfect, beautiful baby - "

"Don't tell me!" Elilia said, and stuck her fingers in her ears.

" - child," Seanna finished, with a smile. "So you want to be surprised, eh? That seems like a good sign to me. Maybe you're starting to believe."

A slow, reluctant smile split Elilia's lips and one hand stole to her belly. "Yes…yes, maybe I am. I feel as if…I feel as if telling someone, talking about it…as if it took some of the load off of me. Made it more bearable. I'm sorry for dropping it on _you, _though. At least you've never had to see one."

"Hey, I'm a healer. Part of healing is listening to people's fears. That's also part of _friendship. _You can tell me anything you need to talk to someone about, Elilia. We're friends."

Elilia reached out and pulled Seanna into a hug. "Thank you, dear. I'm glad I've got friends like you."


	81. Chapter 81

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Two: Burn This Fucker Down**

A pair of mabari hounds running hell-bent for leather past them was enough to rouse the drowsy guards posted on Denerim's north gate. The gigantic, riderless horse that thundered past shortly after, dragging a broken tether, came as a surprise. The shocker lagged some moments behind. A huge stone figure came waddle-running past, and as if that were not startling enough, it _spoke_ to them.

"Don't mind us, Squishy Creatures," it said. "Just passing through on business."

Shale followed the horse, which followed the dogs right through the city streets to Gwaren House. Champion barked her loudest bark and pawed frantically at the front door until it opened. She burst in past the startled servant and shot down the corridors to the main family rooms. Haakon jumped to his feet when his sister burst in, and Elilia dropped her crochet. Paragon burst into the room hot on Champion's heels, and shortly thereafter a gigantic horse head poked through the opening as well, which explained much of the indignant shouting Elilia heard from the common areas. Champion barked, and Bloody Big Horse neighed nervously.

"Maker's breath," Seanna said, as she stopped still in the doorway of the adjoining room. "What on earth is going on?"

"Something's happened to Loghain," Elilia said.

"Was that it's name? I did not pay much attention to its introduction of itself. But regardless, yes, something _has_ happened to it," Shale said, and sidled into the room past the horse. Elilia's eyes bugged out of her head. "What has happened is that it and its companions have been taken prisoner by creatures in armored dresses. The dogs followed it to their prison, and I followed the dogs. If it should care about its fate, it might want to follow me. But that is entirely up to it. It is little to me one way or the other whether it lives or dies."

* * *

Keep his captors occupied, and look for a means of escape. That was the goal when Loghain first awoke, chained to a cold stone wall inside a prison cell. He had no idea where he was, but he knew one thing about it: the Chantry had a finger in it. His wardens were templars, and his torturers priests.

The templars and priests called him and his companions maleficarum. They didn't even care that two of them were dwarves, and thus could not be mages at all. Fenris' lyrium tattoos and Loghain's dragon eyes were all the evidence they felt they needed, and Loghain had a sneaking suspicion they did not often require so much evidence as that. He doubted they even knew for certain, yet, that two of his companions actually _were_ mages. The unrest between templars and the Circles, and Alistair's attempts to turn Ferelden into a free-mage state, had evidently driven this particular hidden sect to a mad mage hunt.

In their cells they were chained up out of reach of each other, their hands encased in bonds of lead meant to dampen magical abilities. The main floor of the room where they were jailed was a torture chamber, but the priests who ran it called it "the laboratory." Loghain was determined that his companions never become part of these twisted Chanters' vile "experiments," and to that end he had to keep them occupied. He did so by offering up himself. With his eyes, and the adoption of a determinedly irreverent demeanor, it was easy enough to draw their attention and keep them interested. They believed him to be an abomination, and were keen to learn if such a creature could be broken through the administration of pain.

Determined that they would never wring a scream from him, Loghain steeled himself against their worst efforts. Branding irons were applied to the soles of his feet. He laughed at them. The worse the pain they inflicted, strangely, the easier it was to laugh at them. It was as if something inside of him were stepping in front of the pain and absorbing it. He could still feel it, but it was as if it meant nothing at all. That something inside of him was getting stronger.

He could feel that strange shifting sensation in his throat at all times, but fought against it. He wanted to see these bastards burn, but the room was full of dry timber and the cells were lined with ancient straw. The whole place would go up like a tinderbox and he intended to see his companions out alive. At all times he was testing the restraints that bound him, testing his strength, testing their weaknesses, and testing the patience of his captors. The latter was not, perhaps, strictly necessary, but a man had to take his pleasures where he could find them.

It was hard to determine the passage of time in this windowless cell block. He thought that five days must have passed since they were captured, perhaps a week. Surely not more than that. It _felt_ much longer. Holding his own tongue through that time was less difficult than keeping his companions silent. Hawke knew that the Chantry would be happy to learn they'd caught her, but she seemed to think that Loghain could secure his own release and the others' if he simply disclosed his identity. Loghain himself knew better. Ferelden's Grand Cleric turned a blind eye to it, but he'd been declared anathema by the Chantry numerous times, and the last time in the days since the battle of Sulcher's Pass. They'd be _overjoyed_ to learn they had the infamous heretic Loghain Mac Tir in their grasp.

Bound down to a great rack-like machine of torture, Loghain suffered his captors' torments and pulled at his chains. And at long last, in the chain that bound his right arm, he felt…give.

* * *

If the crashing hooves of the giant charger were not enough, the templars guarding the entrance to the squat stone building had Shale's huge stone fists to contend with. Seanna, astride her game little Ferelden Cob mare, cast her spells at them from a safe distance while Elilia leaned far out of Bloody Big Horse's saddle and slashed at them with the blue greatsword Master Wade deemed not quite superior enough. Champion, Paragon, and Haakon tore at any body part they could lock their jaws onto.

"Oh, this is _most _enjoyable!" Shale said as she crushed a templar's helmet - and the head inside it.

"_Hyaa!" _Elilia shouted, and pulled Bloody Big horse into a rear. The horse kicked in the iron-barred door with little difficulty. Heedless of the low clearance and tight confines, Elilia rode the horse right inside. The startled defenders of the inner sanctum stood little chance against her righteous rage, and she made no distinction between armored templar and robed priest. If they stood before her, she cut them down.

The ground floor appeared to be living and administrative quarters. The party killed everyone they found, and then Elilia dismounted. The long, winding stone steps leading into the building's deep dungeons were too narrow for Bloody Big Horse to navigate. Shale had some little difficulty with them. The dogs raced ahead and Seanna brought up the rear, and refreshed various defensive spells. They killed every foe and released every prisoner they came across as they worked their way to the heart of the wicked perversions of the Chantry's deepest, darkest secret.

* * *

Loghain worked surreptitiously at his chains. He was so focused upon his task that he was scarcely aware of the priests and their templar minions who worked him over; the shallow cuts they made in his chest and stomach, and the hot liquid lyrium they poured into them, might as easily have been happening to another person. He just needed to find the strength. He grasped for it, tantalizingly close but still just out of his reach.

A templar glanced at his face and cocked his head curiously. He leaned in closer for a better look. "Mother Fidelia, look at this. One of its eyes is changing."

"Changing how?" The good "Mother" put down her silverite knife and leaned in for a look herself.

"Changing color. See, there? It's turning yellow, isn't it?"

"Fascinating! I wonder if these means we're finally getting somewhere with it?"

Loghain's inward gaze turned outward suddenly, locked on the Mother's face, and he grinned. "Sure it does," he said, and gave a mighty yank at his chains. A weak link in the bonds holding fast his right arm broke, and the thick chain whipped forward and smashed into the side of the priest's head. Blood spurted from her nose and mouth and she dropped like a stone. The templar swore and tried to draw his sword, but Loghain grabbed him by the neck and hurled him across the room. Then he grabbed hold of his own left wrist and pulled with all the strength he could muster. With a tortured groan, the left-side chain finally snapped. With his ankles still tightly secured, he now at least had some limited freedom of movement. He used his broken chains as weapons to strike out at his captors.

Once he had them at bay he was able to maneuver himself so that his feet slid out of the shackles that held him, though not without losing a fair amount of skin. The blood made his bonds slippery and at last he was free. He launched himself at his remaining captors from a feral position on all fours, like a beast. He _fought _like a beast; grabbing, tearing, gouging, pounding. A guttural roar rose out of his chest. The swords of the templars were no more than the stings of mosquitoes as he tore them to pieces one by one.

The door burst inward as he was choking the life out of the last of his captors. His attack at this new foe stopped short when he realized that the newcomer was his own wife. "Elilia?" he said in disbelief.

"Dear Maker, Loghain, when are you ever _not_ covered in blood?" she said.

"Ah. It has survived. Although by the looks of it, only just," Shale said. "Well, we have rescued it. Let us settle with the denizens of this hellhole and depart."

A large chest near the door contained the party's confiscated goods. Elilia pulled Loghain's Archdemon sword from it and held it out to him.

"Can you use a sword?" she asked.

"Can a fish swim?" he said. He took the blade and turned to the cell that contained the others. The blue longsword made short work of the lock on the door and the bonds holding his companions. They dressed themselves hurriedly, and searched out the hiding place of the mages' staves and Fenris' greatsword.

"I hope you saved some of these bastards for me," Fenris said, as he hefted his blade.

Loghain found the pouch of Andraste's ashes and made them secure in his inner coat pocket. He put on his mirrored spectacles. "Let's find out, shall we? I want this den of jackals _emptied."_

* * *

They finished with the templars and priests, and released every living soul they found in the dungeon cells. There were many more "laboratories" in the dungeon, and several were in use when they were raided. The victims of these foul experiments were close to death, but Bethany did her best to heal them and they were sent back up the winding stairs to freedom. Many of them were apostates, and many were merely people caught up in the templars' web, whether accidentally or because they harbored family members with magical talent. There were, for some reason, a number of Tranquil as well. Perhaps they were apostates who had been branded right here in the prison, or perhaps they were just another round of experiments. None of the prison's wardens could say, for the party left none alive to testify.

Finished with their bloody task, the former prisoners basked in the sunlight back at the surface. "I don't ever want to be underground again," Varric said. "What in the blue bloody blazes _is_ this place, anyway?"

"I think _I_ know what it is," Seanna said. "I think it must be the Aeonar, the mages' prison. It's a worse place than I ever could have imagined."

Loghain disappeared inside for a few moments, and when he exited again smoke billowed out behind him in a black plume. "It _was_ a worse place. Soon it will be nothing but a pile of ashes."

They watched it burn. A pair of templars returned from a patrol and drew swords. Elilia turned swiftly upon them and held the Archdemon-bone greatsword beneath the nose of the first.

"Ever had your asses handed to you by a pregnant woman?" she asked. "You're about to."

The templars surrendered, and were taken prisoner. Elilia made to mount Bloody Big Horse but Loghain took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him.

"Please," he said, "please tell me you've forgiven me. Please say I can come home."

"You're not the one who needs to apologize," she said. "I lost my head, and I'm sorry. It's better, now. It's still difficult. It's a constant struggle to keep myself convinced that nothing terrible is going to happen to me or our child. But I'm holding on. I can hold my head up, now. I can look you in the eye again. Please, come home."

He harnessed his sword and put both hands side by side on her belly, and leaned in and kissed her. Then he knelt down, and kissed her where her stomach belled out slightly to disclose the child she carried.

"Progeny. Splendid," Shale said, in a voice of disgust. "I knew it was pregnant. When I first saw it, it was crocheting _baby booties."_


	82. Chapter 82

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Three: Therein Lurks Madness**

Mounted on Bloody Big Horse with Elilia before him as they headed back to Denerim, Loghain would have liked an opportunity to enjoy the experience more than he was able. Their templar prisoners preyed upon his mind, and he was anxious to learn just how much Ferelden's Grand Cleric knew of the activities taking place in her country under Chantry offices. His hope was, not much. _Nothing, _would be better still. He'd like to be able to hang this one thoroughly on the Divine and her Orlesian hierarchy. He could see a not-too-distant future with Ferelden breaking free of the Orlesian Chantry, but he'd be damned if he'd let the _new _Ferelden Chantry be as corrupt and unconscionable as the old.

If Elilia shared his worries she did not show it. She was too enrapt in talking with Shale. She clearly found the golem fascinating, and the golem was amenable to answering her many questions, though not without a healthy dollop of sarcasm. Shale stomped at her brisk waddling pace at Bloody Big Horse's side, and the horse was not discomfited by her ground-pounding proximity in the slightest, now that he'd gotten used to her.

"I hope all these questions I'm asking don't bother you, Shale," Elilia said. "I don't mean to be rude, but I am so very curious about you. You remember nothing from before Wilhelm found you in the Deep Roads?"

"Very little. Flashes of things, mostly; memories without context. I remember plenty about my time _with_ my late, unlamented master, and that seems enough to me. The only thing about my missing memories that I regret is my missing sense of purpose. I feel that there must be some direction my life is meant to take, but all I can remember is my life being directed _for _me by others. It is a most uncomfortable feeling."

"I'd imagine so. You can't remember a time when your actions weren't directed by your control rod?"

"Ought I to? When it was functional, I obeyed. Only now that it is broken do I have free will. The only thing I lack is the knowledge of what to do with it now I've got it."

Elilia shifted uncomfortably. "I…met the inventor of golems, once."

"I find that difficult to believe. Squishy creatures such as itself lead very short lifespans, and golems were invented ever so long ago."

"He was a golem himself."

Shale heaved a heavy sigh. "If this is a chicken-and-the-egg situation, I am not interested in hearing about it," she said.

"No, he was a dwarf, originally. He was made into a golem by his apprentices."

"_What? _A squishy creature was…made _into_ a golem? How can this be?"

"I'm afraid that's the way it's done, Shale. A golem's life force comes from that of a formerly squishy creature. Yours, too."

"That's sick," Loghain said.

"That's _repugnant," _Shale said. "No. No, I refuse to believe it. It is lying to me for reasons best known to itself, or otherwise the golem that told it this heinous untruth was lying. Where is he? I should like to meet another talking golem at any rate, and if he is spreading lies about my nature I shall have words for him."

"I'm afraid he's deceased, Shale," Elilia said, carefully avoiding the issue of the fact that she was the _reason_ he was deceased. "But Cairidin wasn't lying, and neither am I. You were once a person of flesh, probably a dwarf. There is a smith in the Deep Roads _now_ who knows the secrets of golem construction, though she wouldn't know the particulars of yours. She's only been making golems for the past decade."

"I have been paralyzed far longer than that. Could it be so? Could this magnificent stone husk of mine once have been purulent, revolting flesh and bone and people-mush? It is a disquieting thought."

"I am sorry you can't speak to Cairidin, Shale," Elilia said, and she meant it. "You could have learned much from him, I expect, even if he was not the one who made you."

"Disquieting," Loghain said. _"Disturbing, _more like. I thought that at some point Shale must have been possessed by a Fade spirit of some kind, but you say now that this need not be so. Golems would _all_ be free-thinking creatures if their control rods didn't work?"

"So I would assume," Elilia said.

"Well, what bone-headed idiot thought _that _was a good idea?" he demanded. Elilia shrugged.

"Cairidin," she said. A bit nettled she added, "And me."

"I don't mean that _golems_ are a bad idea; golems are a powerful weapon of war, and I could see why some warriors might choose to make themselves over into one of them. I mean the _control rods. _You take away a soldier's freedom of thought, you've crippled him. Severely."

"Well, golems are powerful, as you say. A golem you don't control is a golem that might turn that power against you, particularly if that golem is not one by choice. Not everyone submitted to the Anvil was willing."

Loghain sighed and buried his face in her ponytail. "I shall assume you had your reasons for handing the means of golem construction over to the dwarven smith, knowing that."

"Some evils are necessary. The dwarves need golems to defend Orzammar and Kal-Hirol, and it is not for me to deny them that power simply because they _might_ abuse it."

"Substitute _will_ for _might," _Loghain said. "That kind of power lends itself well to abuse."

"So does magic. But that doesn't mean I feel it is my right to deny mages their lives."

"I don't disagree with you," he said. "If I'd been there, I might have made the same choice you did. _Probably _would have. I'm just glad you recognize that, necessity or not, the Anvil _is_ an evil."

His arm slipped around her waist and he squeezed her. Shale saw and groaned. Loghain smirked at her.

"You dislike flesh so, Shale, but I wouldn't trade my beloved's squishy bits for all the power in Thedas."

* * *

Shale was very quiet the rest of the way. Thoughtful. It was obvious the truth of her origins disturbed her greatly. Elilia, too, was rather quiet that night as they made camp. Finally Seanna broke the silence.

"_Just tell him about it," _she said to Elilia. "You think because he's a man he can't fully understand, but it will help both of you to have it out, I promise. I bet he'll understand more than you think."

Elilia looked at Loghain. "Could we find some privacy?" she asked. He nodded and stood to follow her a short distance into the trees.

"What's this about, dearest?" he asked. "You seem quite perturbed."

She didn't waste any time. "Have you ever seen a broodmother?" she asked.

"No, I haven't. They never come up from the Deep Roads, as I understand it, and the Montsimmard Wardens were too busy putting on parades and tournaments to venture much belowground. With next to no leadership from the upper hierarchy of the Order, that particular stronghold of the Grey Wardens is just next door to useless. Recruitment was high, though."

"Do you know how they're created?" she asked. "Broodmothers, I mean."

"Ah. I wondered about this. No, not precisely, but I've gathered from what I've heard you and other Wardens say about them that I'm not going to like it when I learn."

She took a deep breath and told him what she knew of how it worked. When she was through his face was drawn and pale. She looked at him with a nervous, wistful expression on her face. Finally, he spoke.

"Maker's breath. And you've seen these poor women, killed them?"

"Several. But only two up-close and personal. One was a dwarf named Laryn. The other…well, I don't know what her name might have been, but she was most likely human. Probably quite pretty once, too. And I'd almost bet you she had children. By the time I met her she was a monster and utterly insane, but I…I felt so sorry for her."

"You gave her peace," he said, almost absently. His pale face was actually beginning to turn an interesting shade of green, and she thought he might vomit. She took a defensive step back.

Instead of regurgitating, he shook his head, and his face suffused with angry blood. "Blast and damnation. I knew the darkspawn were vile, but this…this is…there are no words. They _rape women_. Their evil knows no bloody boundaries."

"For what it's worth, I don't know that any actual rape occurs," Elilia said. To her surprise, this seemed to make him angrier.

"Of course it's bloody rape. It doesn't matter whether the reproduction happens sexually or through some sort of parthenogenesis; it's _rape. _It's a violation, forced upon these poor women as they're held as helpless captives."

"I…you're right. You're _right." _She squatted down on her hunkers and let her hands dangle limply between her knees.

"Can I tell you something I've never told anyone about? Never talked about, even with the people who were there with me?" she asked, when she looked up after a moment.

"If you need to talk, you can tell me anything," Loghain said.

Elilia sighed and looked down again. "There was a darkspawn, an _intelligent_ darkspawn. Called himself the Architect. I think you had your own run-in with him years back, but I'm not sure."

"Through Maric, yes, I think I know the creature you speak of."

"Well. It was my first year at Amaranthine, not long after the First Warden sent you away from me, the bastard. It was the year I killed that second broodmother. He was the reason that encounter was so horrifying. He was the one who made her sane, and drove her mad."

Loghain squatted down before her. "You'd better explain," he said gently.

"He had a plan, you see. He would make the darkspawn intelligent, as he was, by using Grey Warden blood in the same way the Wardens use darkspawn blood, to the opposite effect. The blood makes them resistant, you see, to the Call, the song of the Archdemons. He wanted to make all the darkspawn resistant to the Call, like he was, so that they'd no longer be driven to Blight, and be slaughtered in the thousands. But these creatures, they have no free will, no education…a darkspawn with a freed mind is worse off than Shale, for they've never had souls to guide their purpose at all. Many of the darkspawn he freed resented him for it. The worst of these called herself the Mother."

"The broodmother you speak of."

She nodded. "The Call was her oblivion. It wiped out the abomination that had become of her, made her see nothing but beauty and forget the ugliness. It was an insanity, but it was a mercy. When she was freed, when her mind was her own again and she could remember what she was, what had been done to her, she became a true monster. The Architect…the Architect was a fool. He knew nothing of untainted peoples, nothing of how we act and react. He did not understand and doubtless could never be _made_ to understand that _his_ people are a parasite, one that ought to be driven to extinction. He expected me to help him free the darkspawn from the Call and let him take his beloved 'people' into the Deep Roads to live freely, but I could not do that. In order to propagate themselves they'd have to continue taking women and changing them into abominations, and that I cannot allow. Darkspawn with free will are a _greater _evil than the ones driven by the Archdemons. They work their evils by choice. And no freed broodmother could ever be _anything _less than a raving lunatic."

"So you killed the bastard, I hope," Loghain said. Elilia nodded.

"I did. And some of the Wardens with me…Velanna, whose sister the Architect turned, and even Oghren, who was probably thinking of what quiet Deep Roads would mean for Orzammar…thought I made a bad decision. They didn't understand."

He reached out and took her hands in his. _"I _understand," he said. "I think you made the best choice you could make. The _only _choice."

She smiled. Only a little, but it was a smile. "Thank you."

"Now, can I ask you something?" he said. She nodded. "Did you know you were pregnant the day we faced the dragon?"

She gulped slightly. "Yes."

"So you were already struggling with that - with these bad memories - when I vomited in your mouth."

"Yes, I guess I was."

"My poor girl," he said in a murmur. "All this time you've been suffering, and you had to go it alone. I'm so sorry, my darling. I wish I could have comforted you somehow."

"I'm sorry I pushed you away. I just couldn't bear to think that you might…"

"Might not understand?"

She nodded, then rocked forward on her toes and pressed her mouth to his. "I'm sorry, my love," she said when she broke the kiss. "I'll never doubt you again."

He snorted softly. "You will. I'll bring it on myself, surely. But I will never turn from you, my darling. Not now, not ever again."

* * *

**A/N:** Parthenogenesis. You have no idea how much I waffled on whether or not Loghain would use that word. I usually go with my first instinct, but that's not a word a lot of people can just pull out of their asses. Finally I went with it but I'm still not certain he'd know it, or well enough to use it on the fly. I justify myself with the knowledge that Loghain only THINKS of himself as uneducated.


	83. Chapter 83

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Four: Harvest Time**

Time moved on in its steady fashion. An angry pair of monarchs confronted the Grand Cleric with the captured templars and Loghain's account of what took place in the Aeonar, and all were satisfied by the end that the elderly cleric knew nothing of the activities at the mage's prison. Though she'd heard of its existence that was basically all she knew of it. She wept when she saw the lyrium-bright scars on Loghain's chest and stomach, and the brands on the soles of his feet, and denounced any Priest or templar who took part in the torture as heretical.

Shale took up residence in the memorial park, and soon the squirrel and pigeon population dwindled drastically. She remained a quiet, thoughtful golem, however, and brooded long over the story of her fleshly origins.

Elilia wished for her child to be born in Gwaren, so after a few months to arrange affairs she and Loghain packed up the Denerim household and headed south. The natives greeted their now obviously-pregnant new Teyrna coolly, her Teyrn-Consort with something approaching warmth and a degree of relief.

In the late summer, a messenger arrived from Denerim, bearing a gift for Loghain from Master Wade. The golden longsword, forged from the scales of the felled dragon, was quite dazzling to the eye and fairly sang as it cut the air toward a target, which target was inevitably obliterated upon being struck. The tear stains on the letter Wade sent along attested to the heartfelt emotion of the smith for the honor of having worked such a marvelous piece.

As Elilia's due date neared, and she and Seanna both became more nervous about her condition and that of the baby, Loghain took to making long walks in the forest to get out from underfoot and calm himself of his own fears. Fears that Elilia would become ill or have a difficult, dangerous birth, fears that the baby would not make it, fears that the child would bear the strangeness of the dragon's blood as he did. He did a great deal of hunting on these long walks, running down prey on all fours and tearing it with his teeth and nails. He would never speak of that to a living soul.

Varric came down from the city for the Harvestmere celebration, as he said he would. Laz and Paragon, of course, came with him, but so too did Champion Hawke, Merrill, Bethany, and Captain Isabela, who was always up for a party wherever one was to be found. The baby was expected any day, but Elilia insisted she was well enough to attend the village festival.

"It's an important day to Gwareners," she said, "and they're going to have to get used to seeing me there."

On Loghain's arm, trying her best not to waddle, Elilia toured the food stands and greeted her most immediate subjects. Bann Cauthrien was also present in the village for the festival, and greeted her Teyrna with some worry creasing her features.

"Are you certain you ought to be exerting yourself, Your Grace?" she asked. Her eyes lingered on Elilia's massive ball of a belly beneath the plain shift dress she wore. As if to punctuate the Bann's fears, the baby kicked hard. Elilia smiled weakly.

"The exercise is doing me good," she said. "I've spent too much time cooped up inside lately, it's driving me batty."

As she wandered through the village she heard a good deal of gossip, much of it pertaining to her condition. "She's carrying high - definitely a boy," was the prevalent rumor. She got the distinct impression that she was seen less as a person than as a vessel for the production of "the Teyrn's" child. She tried not to let it bother her. The former Teyrna, after all, had been one of these people born and bred, and they were unlikely ever to accept that she'd been replaced with a Blue-Blood.

Pregnancy made her every bit as ravenous as being a Warden ever had, and she raided the foodstuffs greedily. Abalone and fried clam, fish chowder and oyster stew, turkey drumsticks and chicken feet - if it was meat, she was hungry for it. Seanna nervously joked that the baby must weigh forty pounds if it was an ounce. Elilia herself felt fat and wretched about it, but for whatever reason Loghain still seemed to find her attractive even in this condition. Perhaps it was that fabled "glow" she'd always heard about but never noticed in anyone herself.

As evening drew in the musicale began. The minstrels tuned up and played the old songs, many of which predated the kingdom itself. Elilia tried to settle in and enjoy it, but contractions kept her wincing. They were well-spaced, nothing to worry about, but still…

A powerful contraction hit her, and she grabbed for Loghain's arm. She took deep breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth. "I think…I think this baby wants out," she said as she felt her water break.

Loghain swept her up into his arms immediately. "Seanna, bring the midwife, please," he said, and carried his wife back into the Keep. He put her to bed and held her hand until the women showed up.

"Step out, please, Your Grace," the midwife said, but Elilia squeezed down hard on his hand.

"If I'm going to make it through this with my sanity intact, I need him here," she said.

The midwife was clearly flustered - men weren't supposed to be present when a woman gave birth - but Seanna calmly said, "Very well, my friend, if that's what you need."

The midwife rallied best she could do, and Loghain sat at the head of the bed, holding Elilia's hand and feeling very much out of place but glad, overall, to be there. Her grip on his hand relaxed slightly, but she bore down hard again as another contraction swept her.

"My goodness, we're very nearly ready already," the midwife said, after an inspection beneath the hem of Elilia's dress. "This baby means business."

"Half Cousland, half Mac Tir," Elilia said, with a weak smile. "You'd better _believe_ he means business."

"Or she," Seanna said, with a faint smile.

"_Definitely _means business, if it's a she," Loghain said. "Always more deadly than the male."

Another contraction hit_. "Son of a - " _Elilia said.

The baby certainly did mean business. The midwife was not finished making her preparations before she had to leave off, since the child fully intended to come forth with or without hot water and warm towels.

"Let us have done with it, then," she said. "Push, My Lady, push!"

With a deep, gutteral groan, Elilia pushed. In what Loghain could not help but feel must be record time, the midwife stood up with an enormous armful of child. She smacked it on the bottom, and the child cried with fine voice. Seanna cut the cord that tied it to its mother. Elilia flopped back on the pillows, red-faced and sweating and breathing hard.

"Dear sweet Maker, it's huge," she said.

The midwife hefted the child. "I'd guess she weighs a stone easy, My Lady. Sometimes when they're born big like this, means there's a problem with the mother's blood."

"No such problem exists here," Seanna said, with a reassuring pat to Elilia's knee. "Your body is regulating its sugars just fine. She's just a big girl, I suppose."

"It's a girl?" Elilia asked. "Can I hold her?"

"Let me get her washed up first, My Lady," the midwife said. "Once she's clean she could do with a good feeding."

"Are you going to be all right to do that?" Seanna asked, concerned. Elilia blushed, but nodded firmly.

"She's my daughter, not a darkspawn. I can feed her."

"She's beautiful," Loghain said, and stroked Elilia's sweaty hair. _"You're _beautiful."

"_I'm _a mess," Elilia said. The midwife returned and laid the child in her arms. "But I do agree she's beautiful."

"What are you going to name her?" Seanna asked.

"Well, I had thought if I had a girl I would name her after our mothers - Eleanor Nerissia Cousland. Now, though, something is telling me that this little girl's name is _Harvest."_

She let Loghain hold his daughter for a moment before she started to feed her. Loghain looked down into the little red face and wondered if she was simply big or if there was more to it than that. Baby eyes blinked open and wavered uncertainly at the twin silverite disks over his eyes. The chubby little face lit in a bright smile. Loghain was relieved to see no teeth in the child's moist pink gums. It was the only relief he was afforded.

Little Harvest Cousland was too new for the blue of her eyes to be certain, but one thing was: her pupils were straight slit up and down, just like her father's.


	84. Chapter 84

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Five: Little Dragon**

He should say something. He should break the news gently rather than have Elilia find out for herself, possibly have a panic attack like she did before. But a cowardly streak rose up in him and when she reached for her child he merely laid the infant in her arms.

Elilia slipped the dress down off her shoulders and put the baby to her breast. She stroked the chubby little red cheek with a finger. "Beautiful Harvest," she said, in a coo. "How silly was I, to fear this?"

Loghain's mouth was parchment-dry. "Dearest, her eyes…"

"_Her eyes are perfect," _Elilia said, and then, in a milder tone, "They're perfect. She has her father's eyes."

"You saw?"

"They're perfect. _She's_ perfect."

He felt some relief at her reaction, although he wondered if she meant it or was merely trying to convince herself of it. He kissed her forehead and stroked his daughter's dark fuzzy head with a gentle hand.

"I shall send messengers to your brother and to Anora. She'll be interested to learn she has a sister after all this time. Do you have any personal message you wish to send to Fergus?" Loghain asked.

"Just send him my love," Elilia said. "I've never been much for letter-writing, I'm afraid. There's always a thousand things happening and nothing I can think to say about them."

"Ha! That's the way _I've_ always felt about it."

Over the next few days Loghain watched his wife closely for signs of strain or breaking. He was relieved to see none. Indeed, she seemed to take her daughter's strangeness in stride. And the child _was_ strange. Within two days the infant taught herself to stand by hanging on to the slats of her cradle.

Loghain supposed that sooner or later he would have a partner for his long, feral rambles through the woods.

Autumn led softly into winter, and Gwaren lay for months beneath a thick blanket of white snow and ice. Before Loghain and Elilia celebrated their first wedding anniversary Harvest began to refuse the breast. Her parents did not speak of the matter to each other, but simply began to give the child well-chopped solid food. She particularly seemed to favor red meat. By the time the couple returned to Denerim in the spring, the infant was the size of a three-year old, and had already learned to walk and to talk.

Anora very carefully did not comment upon the oddness of that or her new sister's eyes when she first met the child. Alistair, however, was not so tactful.

"Maker's ass, Eli, what did you do? Swap out your baby for someone else's toddler?"

"Watch your tongue, Your Majesty, the child can speak and I don't want her to learn _those words _any earlier than she has to," Elilia said. "Look at those eyes and tell me this is not my baby."

"Yeah, about those eyes…" Alistair said.

"I don't want to hear it. My baby is perfect."

"Oh, of course. Of course."

News out of Orlais was good, as far as Ferelden was concerned. The revolution was in full swing, with Nevarra's armed assistance, and the Empress was feeling the heat. Ferelden's mothers and fathers tucked their children in to bed at night secure in the knowledge that the Empire would not be storming their homes any time soon. In late spring, when the weather turned warm and the heavy spring rains passed by, Elilia received communication from someone she'd never met, whose name was familiar to her regardless.

"Dace? That's one of the noble houses of Orzammar," she said, as she opened the letter. "Wonder what they want from me?"

"Probably a donation," Loghain said, or tried to, as Harvest stuck her hand in his mouth when he opened it. "Now you stop that, you little goof."

"Now top dat, oo wi'l goof," Harvest parroted.

"Hmm, Amgarrak, eh?" Elilia said, as she read her letter. "Seems they've uncovered another lost thaig. They sent an expedition to secure it but they never came back."

"Uh huh. Fascinating," Loghain said.

"Fazinating," Harvest said.

"I refuse to allow you to teach our daughter to use sarcasm until she is at _least _fourteen years of age," Elilia said. "In any event, this man Jerrik Dace wants my help in searching for his missing brother and the expedition that went missing, since his family has decided to call it a loss and not send a proper rescue party. Apparently my reputation has made it to Orzammar."

"Ha. A great deal of your reputation was made _in_ Orzammar."

"Whaz a 'weptutatshun?'" Harvest asked.

"A _reputation, _my dear, is how your actions are viewed by others," Loghain said. "Your mother has a good _reputation _for bulling into places and situations no sane individual ought to go anywhere near."

"I'm going to write back and tell him I'll help," Elilia said.

"Oh, are you?" Loghain said. "And why is that, pray tell?"

"Pway tehw," Harvest said.

"His _brother_ is missing, Loghain. Besides, I haven't had a good scrap in months. I've got cabin fever something awful."

"The Deep Roads are awfully dangerous, my dear, and you are no longer a Warden."

"I'll be fine."

"You're not going into the Deep Roads with _only_ one dwarf in your party."

"Well, _you_ could come along. Fergus could look after Harvest for awhile - it would be good for him to get to know his heir."

"If we're going, its going to be a _full _expedition."

"Aw, expeditions are such a fuss to arrange. You and me, running full tilt for a stone wall…that's the way it works out best."

"Yeah, works to get us both killed. I don't know about you, but _I_ intend to watch my daughter grow up."

"Ah. Good point. Well, I'll let you organize it, then. You're good at that. Military mind, and all that."

"Ha. You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. But you really are good at that." She kissed him on the brow and pulled her daughter off his lap into her arms. "I'm going to put the little dragon down for her nap."


	85. Chapter 85

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **Taliessyn from deviantart did an amazing piece for Loghain and Elilia's wedding dance, titled "El Condor Pasa." Check it out! It's in my favorites: same username there as here.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Six: Expeditionary Force**

Loghain and Elilia bivouacked in the Fishwife's Cloister to plan the expedition. Harvest, seated on her mother's lap, gleefully played with a meat pie while mother and father argued amiably over the details of outfitting.

"I conquered an entire Blight and never went anywhere with more than three other people," Elilia said. "We don't need to bring in that many mercenaries."

"An entire expedition went missing in this Amgarrak," Loghain said. "We're taking all the sword-arms we can recruit."

"I'd be happier if they were people we know, rather than random hires."

"It's not like we don't know an expedition's worth of adventurers. Hell, we could take an entire _army_ with us."

"Laz and Varric are good in a scrap. Why don't we ask them?"

Varric turned around in the next booth. "Ask us what?"

Loghain turned sideways and looked at him. "Do you never move from that spot?"

"If I did, how would anyone find me?" Varric said. "Besides, I've been waiting for you. Scuttlebutt is that you're planning an expedition into the Deep Roads. Can't say I'm thrilled at the prospect of going back underground, but I'm always up for an adventure, particularly a potentially profitable one. And this time at least I'm fairly certain no one involved will attempt to bury me alive down there. Is that the little Hero? Hey, cutie-pie."

Harvest looked at the dwarf with wide eyes. "You weawwy showt," she said at last.

"She talks. That's…surprising. She's not old enough to talk, is she?"

"Tell _her_ that," Elilia said. "She's getting to the age where she's finally starting to catch up to herself. A little."

"Not in terms of size. Even for a human baby, she's ginormous. Is that from the…you know…_dragon's blood?"_

"We think it likely," Loghain said.

"She can't…do that…_thing_ you can do, can she? 'Cause that would be mayhem on a massive scale."

"Thus far there's no sign of it. Hopefully if she develops that ability it won't be until she's much older and can control it. I've never seen a dragonling breathe fire," Loghain said.

"So, are you in?" Elilia asked. "We could use you. Laz, too. And Paragon."

"Sure, I'm up for it. Laz will probably say yes, too, and the dog is always ready and willing. Who else you gonna get?"

Elilia looked at her husband. "You know, I've been thinking that a _golem_ would come in real handy."

"I've lost track of Shale. She still in town, Varric?" Loghain asked.

"Oh yes. You think she'd want to come along?"

"We can but ask. Perhaps she's gotten tired of squashing pigeons by this time."

"Who else do you think we can get?" Elilia said. "I know we know an army of good fighters, but most of them? They're in the army. Or the Wardens. They probably can't come with."

"Why not? They're not doing much of anything else at the moment. Seems to me that bringing a few Wardens along would be wise," Loghain said. "How about that drunk Oghren? He stinks to high heaven but he's a formidable fighter. We'll need a few healers, too. Do you think Seanna would come along?"

"I'm not sure I like the idea of bringing Little Bird into the Deep Roads," Elilia said. "I'd rather leave her at Highever to help look after our dragonling. If you want Wardens, though, Bannistre is an excellent healer, and quite a formidable offensive mage, as well."

"That's the one that's related to Champion Hawke?" Loghain asked.

"Yup. Not that I knew that before the Landsmeet. Let me think. I'm just as happy that I don't have to pal around with Velanna any longer, but Sigrun would be a good fit. I'd like to take Nathaniel along but he's got his hands full these days."

"We can still ask. Information on a rediscovered thaig could be valuable to the Warden-Commander. How about Champion Hawke? Her capacity with the Crown is unofficial. She may be interested in joining us, for profit or adventure."

"We'd end up with Merrill, too, and possibly Bethany. That's a potent amount of magic right there."

"That seems like a decent expeditionary force to me," Loghain said. "If we can get 'em all."

"Even if Nathaniel can't come along he may assign us a few extra Wardens to investigate the thaig," Elilia said. "It _would _be valuable information for the Wardens."

"Word on the street is that a certain Chantry Seeker has finally found out that Hawke is employed by the Crown of Ferelden," Varric said. "I'm sure she's looking for an excuse to get out of town for a little while."

"Is this Seeker going to make trouble for the country?" Loghain asked.

"Hard to say. Good King Alistair has done his level best to make of Ferelden a Free Mage State, and he hasn't gone far out of his way to disguise the fact. I never completely got Lady Penteghast's measure during the hours I spent with her, but I doubt she's all that thrilled with the idea of a nation full of apostates."

"If she makes trouble, I'll kill her," Loghain said.

"Not so easy, Big Bull. She doesn't travel alone."

"I don't care if she travels with an army: if she runs afoul of me she's dead."

Elilia kept her hands clasped over her daughter's ears during this exchange. "Don't speak casually of killing people in front of the little hellion," she said.

"Sorry, darling."

"I'll forgive you this once, you rotten old cur."

"Harpy nag."

Elilia leaned forward and kissed him. "Love you."

"Not as much as I love you."

* * *

**A/N:** Been doing some brainstorming and I think I've come up with some good stuff for Amgarrak. Now I need to wrap my brain around the trouble at the Circle for IANPW so I can continue on with that adventure.


	86. Chapter 86

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Seven: Off to Amgarrak**

It was clear that Jerrik Dace was surprised by the size of the party that met him at the Dace estate in Orzammar, most especially by the presence of the golem.

"Ancestors bless, you've put together quite the expedition. I confess I did not expect so much effort on behalf of my men. Thank you."

"My husband likes to do things up right," Elilia said, and shook Jerrik's hand. "So where is this Amgarrak, anyway?"

"It can be reached through Ortan Thaig. Be prepared: the darkspawn have moved back into that area, though not in the numbers we'd have expected so many years past the Blight."

"We brought Wardens along for that reason," Elilia said, and put a hand on Nathaniel's shoulder. "This is Ferelden's Commander of the Grey, Nathaniel Howe, and these are Wardens Bannistre, Sigrun, Oghren, Elgar, and Amielle. They're all quite interested in learning about this newly rediscovered Thaig, and I thought they'd be quite useful in a rescue operation."

"Your aid is most welcome. But you must be tired and hungry after your long journey. I shall have rooms prepared for you, and tonight we shall have a great feast. In the morning we set out to find my men, and my brother Brogan. For the first time, I feel like there's truly hope."

* * *

A klaxon sounded, rousing Loghain from deep sleep. He somersaulted out of bed and landed in a crouch, sword at the ready. Elilia yawned, stretched, and propped herself up on one elbow.

"Easy, big guy," she said, sleepily. "It's just the alarm clock."

"What in the Maker's name is an _alarm clock?" _he asked.

"A clock that sounds an alarm to wake you," Elilia said, and turned the device off. "That's how you know it's time to get up when you're in the dark underground."

"Maker's breath. How do people put up with it?"

"I honestly don't know. But it's no cause for…er…alarm."

"Easy for you to say." He put his sword down and stood up. "It doesn't feel like morning at all. I thought Orzammar would be different to the Deep Roads, somehow. How do dwarves live like this? Morning looks and feels exactly the same as night."

"I know. I'm surprised you slept. I have a hard time of it."

"I'm a bit surprised myself. Off to the Deep Roads today, eh? Ortan Thaig. There's a place I'd hoped never to see again."

"What's so bad about Ortan Thaig?" Elilia asked. "When we were in the Deep Roads before you seemed particularly restive there."

"Just some old memories," he said. "And a lot of spiders."

"I forgot you don't like spiders," Elilia said, with a laugh. "Don't worry, I'll protect you."

"Thank you, my dear," he said, rather sourly. "I'm going to go get dressed."

"Lucky thing Chatterly insisted on coming along," Elilia said, eyes twinkling. "I'm sure you've forgotten how to put your own trousers on after so long."

"Ha ha."

He had gotten used to having a manservant, although he would never be fully comfortable with it. He permitted the elf to assist him with his clothes and then joined his wife and companions in the dining room for breakfast. Traditional dwarven fare lacked something in terms of variety and flavor, but he found nug pancakes and lichen bread filling if not exactly thrilling.

Afterwards they gathered at the entrance to the Deep Roads and made a final check of their equipment and supplies. No one knew how long they might be spending in the Deep Roads, so a good stock of uncorrupted food supplies was a must. Loghain double-checked the small pouch of ashes tied into his armor just to be sure. Elilia saw him.

"Are you ever going to be ready to tell me what the Guardian said to you at the temple?" she asked.

"One day," he said. "Soon. But when we're alone."

"I'm going to hold you to that."

They did a quick headcount before leaving, since it was a lot of people to keep track of. The Wardens were all accounted for, and the dogs - Champion, Haakon, Paragon, and Champion Hawke's hound Spirit. Laz and Varric were ready and raring to go. Champion Hawke, sister Bethany, and lover Merrill were packed and ready. Shale was sublimely bored and urged them to greater haste. Jerrik and his pet bronto, Snug, were ready to go as well. That was everyone they brought with them, but…

There was one head too many. A blond head, with long, pointy ears.

"Chatterly," Loghain said. "You stay at House Dace while we're gone."

Chatterly adjusted the straps of his pack and smiled. "The Maker told me to come," he said, in the thickly accented Common he had but recently acquired.

"Chatterly, we're going into danger. I've no need of a manservant in the Deep Roads."

"The Maker told me to come."

"_Chatterly…"_

"Oh, let him come," Elilia said. "He's a grown man."

"In some respects, yes. Oh, very well. If he wants to come so badly, he can come."

They set out for the deep roads, through Caridin's Cross to Ortan Thaig. Perhaps the darkspawn were not yet back in full force, but there were a great many of them all the same, and the group was kept fighting all the way. They only made it as far as the entrance to Ortan Thaig the first day, and made camp in the dark with a cautious fire of smokeless coal that Jerrik had brought along. Loghain was very quiet all the next day as they fought their way through the still spider-infested Ortan Thaig. They reached the doors Jerrik said led to Amgarrak. They stopped for a headcount before proceeding.

"We're one short. Where's Loghain?" Elilia said.

"I'm here," he called, from some distance. She went to find him. He stood beside the flowing river near a small, ruined building, and all he did was stare at the rock.

"What are you doing?" she asked him.

He sighed. "Remembering," he said. "I wondered if it would still hurt. Surprisingly, it does. Not so much anymore, though."

"What still hurts?" she asked. "What are you talking about?"

"This is 'round about the place where I killed Queen Rowan."

"_What?"_

"I didn't know at the time that's what I was doing."

"Explain, please."

He looked at her. "You know that I loved her, don't you? I don't have to explain that part."

"I know. But how do you figure that you killed her? My understanding was she died of the wasting, in Denerim, years after the Rebellion."

"That's what the healers said she had. But Maric…and I…_we_ thought it more likely that her illness was the Blight. If so, this is probably how she contracted it. This is where…where we made love."

Elilia was silent for a moment, a tortured silence. "You, Rowan, and _Maric?" _she asked.

"What? No! Rowan and I."

"Oh. I was gonna say…"

"You loon." He shook his head. "Stupid, stupid place to love a woman. I still don't know what I could have been thinking."

"Knowing you, you were thinking it was possibly your only chance to be with the woman you loved. You didn't kill her, Loghain. Even if she did die of the Blight."

He grunted. "I wish I could believe that." He looked at her, then reached out and took the back of her head in his hand. He rested his forehead gently against hers. "Don't _you _go dying on me, Woman. I don't think I could bear it."

Her lips quirked in a near-grimace and she didn't know what to say. Finally she settled on, "Come on: Amgarrak awaits."


	87. Chapter 87

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** This chapter was a real bitch-kitty to write. I hate having to rehash canon storyline and I'm incredibly bad at it. Both factors make me procrastinate actually doing it rather horrendously, which is why I don't have anything else to show for all weekend and yesterday. The knowledge that the only reason I'm putting off writing this chapter is because I don't WANT to write this chapter makes it impossible to write anything else - good old guilt. I'm in the same position with In A Nearly Perfect World but hopefully my greater familiarity with events of the main storyline (as opposed to this, which I've only played through twice thus far) will make it a bit easier.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Eight: Forbidden Thaig**

Amgarrak Thaig was eerily devoid of darkspawn. There were no spiders, and the only deepstalkers they encountered ran straight past them.

"Does anyone else get a _bad feeling _from this?" Nathaniel asked. "I should hate to think it was just me."

"It's not just you," Elilia said. "This place is wrong."

"What is this place supposed to be, Jerrik?" Loghain asked.

"This was the center of research into the creation of golems after Caridin sealed off access to the Anvil," Jerrik said. "Any information we could recover would be invaluable."

"Even though you have the Anvil of the Void?" Elilia asked.

"_We _don't have it; Branka does. And she's gotten a little bit persnickety about His Majesty's demands for more golems."

"Knowing now how golems are made, I cannot but agree with anyone who feels their creation should be somewhat limited," Loghain said. "Let's move on: find your missing expedition, if anything's left of them, and _get out of here."_

They came to a chamber where a dense fog precluded travel in most directions. "I've never seen fog in the Deep Roads before," Elilia said.

"Nor have I," Loghain said. Jerrik, too, seemed nonplussed by the strange phenomenon. "Let's avoid getting lost in it, if at all possible."

They followed the one clear path to a chamber in which stood a silent, deactivated golem.

"What a find," Jerrik said, eyes alight. "If we can find its control rod, this golem will be of great use to us."

"Yes, and of course _it_ lives for nothing more than to serve," Shale said in her sarcastic way.

They backtracked to the fog-shrouded chamber. The dense cloud had cleared slightly, and a new path was open. They followed it, and found a control rod lying conspicuously atop a runic anvil.

"Could we honestly be that lucky?" Elilia asked.

"I don't like it," Sigrun said. "Did anybody else notice how the fog _just happened _to clear in this direction after we found the golem?"

"Oh but Sigrun, you speak as of matters supernatural," Warden Amielle said. "I am certain it is all just a happy coincidence, or explainable through simple logic. We just do not know enough yet."

"And ignorance is the most dangerous condition I know of," Loghain said. "Be wary: Maker only knows what sorts of tricks and traps guard this thaig. Fog may be only the most innocuous of the dangers we encounter."

They returned to the golem and used the control rod on it. It came to life with a groan of stone and steel. Silent, the construct immediately fell into step with the group.

"Makes a nice change to Shale, don't it?" Loghain whispered to Elilia. "Obedient and most importantly, _quiet."_

"And here I thought you were going to stand as a champion of golem rights," Elilia said. "You'd prefer Shale to be a silent, obedient hunk of stone rather than the free-willed creature she is?"

"Of course not. But I'd give much if she'd shut up."

"The same could be said of everyone you know, up to and most likely including myself," she said.

He grinned at her. She stuck her tongue out at him. They returned to the fog-shrouded chamber with the others. Another pathway had opened. Sigrun looked at it and shook her head.

"I'm not so sure this isn't supernatural," she said.

"I gotta agree with the pipsqueak," Oghren said. "This place puts my knickers in a knot. Feels like I'm stuck in that damned dream-place again."

"The Fade?" Elilia said. "You know what, he's right. This place _does_ kind of feel like the Fade."

"Let's keep moving," Jerrik said. "Brogan has got to be here somewhere, and I'm not leaving without him."

"A dwarf who would actually _save _his brother's life. Interesting phenomenon in itself," Varric said.

They moved forward down the path the fog had helpfully cleared. They soon saw their first darkspawn, but the creatures were unreal, ethereal. Almost as if they were ghosts, or existed on another plane. The darkspawn took no notice of them, which was almost more unnerving still.

"Gah, this place gives me the creeps," Sigrun said. "Can we go home now?"

"Not without Brogan," Jerrik said.

"You heard the man," Loghain said. "Let's keep moving."

They continued through the silent, eerie ruins. They found bodies. They found Brogan.

Like the darkspawn, Jerrik's brother was ethereal, unreal. But apparently very much alive, wherever and however he was trapped. Unless, of course, he was a ghost.

"Brogan. _Brogan!" _Jerrik said, and tried to make contact with his brother through the veil that separated them. The dwarf paid no attention to him, either because he was unaware of their presence or because he was out of his mind. He gabbled to himself, oblivious to everything, as he faced the wall and cowered.

"Jerrik, leave him be," Loghain said. "He's trapped by something I don't understand. We'll have to look for an answer before we can save him."

"But we _will _save him," Jerrik said. It was a statement and a question all in one.

"We will. We're just going to have to work a little harder, is all. Come on: answers will be further in."

They moved forward. Jerrik was not too distracted by fears for his brother to loot the thaig, and uncovered a cache of researches into golem manufacture. They found footprints in blood, and the torn journal notes of the lost expedition's scholar, and they found passages blocked by strange magical walls. Warden Bannistre walked up to one and put a hand out to touch it.

"It's like…like the Fade, only…" He trailed off uncertainly and then turned to look at the others. "I think that this is another plane of existence, like the Fade, only this feels as if it were _engineered. _I don't know what sort of magic or enchantment could call an alternate plane of existence into being but however it came to be, I think what we're dealing with here is extraordinarily dangerous. I think that this Brogan is trapped in one of these alternate planes. I sense several. I don't know how we're going to sort it all out and save him."

"We'll find a way," Loghain said, and Jerrik looked somewhat relieved at the surety in his voice. "There's one path open: let's follow it and see what we see."

"I hate to be _that guy," _Varric said, "but has anyone else been seeing…_something_…moving, out the corner of their eye? 'Cause I have. And I don't think it's anything I want a better look at."

"I've seen it," Elilia said. She scratched Haakon's ears. "The dogs have been alerting to it. I guess we'll find out what it is sooner or later. I vote for later, myself."

"Let's move on," Loghain said, and they followed him into the open chambers. Jerrik kept an eye out for more research notes. There were sentinel golems that activated when they entered certain places, and they were difficult foes. Finally, in the last chamber they could reach without tunneling through collapsed rock, they found a floor switch. Bannistre checked it, and said that he sensed it had something to do with the created planes he'd sensed. They activated the switch, felt the change, and deactivated it again to ensure they could return to normal.

"Well…let's see how the world changes with this 'alternate plane' activated," Loghain said. He stepped on the plate again.

"This is wild," Laz said. "How did they do this without magic?"

"I think they _had_ magic," Bannistre said. "Those notes we found mentioned something about Tevinter. I think this thaig was a cooperative effort between the dwarves and the magisters, or at least one of them."

"That would explain a lot," Varric said. "Tevinter. Your one-stop shop for all sorts of freaky magic."

"Let's get back to Brogan," Jerrik said. "Maybe we can reach him now."

They returned to the place where they'd seen the dwarf. "Brogan!" Jerrik called. This time, the man heard. But his response was not much encouragement. Terror, it seemed, had robbed Brogan Dace of much of his senses. He continued to babble.

"Brogan. Brogan, calm down. I'm here, Brother. What happened? Where are the rest of the men?" Jerrik asked.

"Dead. All dead, Jerrik. All except Darion. Maybe him, too. It tore them apart and stole their bodies."

"Darion?" Elilia asked.

"Darion Olmec, the scholar that came along with the expedition," Jerrik explained. "If he's still alive somewhere in this thaig, we have to find him."

"Let's see if we can breach the other chambers," Loghain said. "I'm willing to look for another survivor, but let's move quickly. I want out of this place."

It was quite a puzzle, and they encountered more hostile golems and even arcane horrors and revenants that they were forced to battle through. There were more switches to be thrown, more alternate planes to enter, more half-glimpses of some crawling horror that fled from them. They found more research notes, and more pages from Darion Olmec's discarded journal. Then, they found Darion. Or rather, they found what was left of him.

"There's nothing more we can do here," Loghain said. "Let's quit this place while we can."

"Yes. Yes. Leave now, while we can," Brogan said.

They turned and started back the way they'd come. They did not get far. Cobbled together from the cast-off pieces of dead bodies, the horror Olmec's notes had called "The Harvester" attacked with frightening, unnatural speed. Loghain, at the fore of the group, was the monstrosity's target. But he was not the one who fell to the creature's claws. Though the monster moved too swiftly for even _his_ well-trained reactions, someone had time to make one step, one step that put him in the path of the creature's ire instead. Chatterly made that step. Limp as a rag doll, his body flew bonelessly to the side as the creature discarded him.

"_Healer!" _Loghain bellowed, and attacked the monster. Bethany scrambled to Chatterly's side as the rest of the group fell to the assault against the Harvester. Despite their numbers, it was a difficult battle, made more complicated as the creature had the assistance of shades of demonic magic. Loghain wasn't the only one streaming blood from various wounds before at last the monster and its minions fell.

Loghain dropped his blood-drenched sword and hurried over to Bethany. She turned a tear-streaked face up to him.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," she said. "There was nothing I could do."

Chatterly lay where he had fallen, torn almost completely in two. Strangely, his frozen expression did not betray pain or terror. His face was a mask of peace and his lips curved in the same pleasant, open smile he always wore. Loghain's breath came in hitches, and after a momentary struggle, he began to cry.

"You damned fool. Did your _Maker_ tell you to do this, Chatterly? Did that bastard tell you to sacrifice yourself on my account? Well tell him to keep his damned nose out of my affairs. You had _no business _being here, _no business _dying for me."

Elilia came to stand behind him, and she reached down and put her hand on his shoulder. "Loghain…"

He stood up suddenly, and took the camp kit from his back. He unrolled his own bedroll and put Chatterly's battered remains inside it.

"What are you doing?" Elilia asked.

"I'm not leaving him down here," he said, and tied the blankets around the corpse. "Let's go."


	88. Chapter 88

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Nine: Funeral Rites**

Getting out of Amgarrak thaig was not an easy proposition. First and foremost Bethany and Bannistre worked to heal the many wounds the party had suffered. Though he was badly injured himself, Loghain refused healing.

"See to the others first," he said, when Bethany attempted to tend his wounds. He stood in weary silence by the shrouded figure of the dead elf while the others rested.

"How do we get out of here?" Varric asked. "We've been in and out of alternate planes so many times, I'm not sure which one is which anymore, let alone which way is _out."_

"Near where we found Olmec's body, there was a hole," Loghain said. "I smelled fresh air - _surface_ air. We'll try to open up the passage and get out that way. Maybe our new friend the golem can dig it out for us."

"Leave…to the _surface?" _Jerrik said.

"You'd rather stay here?" Loghain said. "It shouldn't be far from where we are to Orzammar: we can have you and your brother home long before there's any threat to your 'stone-sense.'"

"This thaig is valuable. I cannot leave until it's been thoroughly explored."

"This thaig is a death-trap. Frankly I don't _want_ to open it up to the surface, but I want out of here even more. You want to explore this place, come back with your own damned team and on your own damned time. If you want my advice, seal this place off and forget it ever _existed."_

"My family will probably consider we've already lost too much. We can't leave without at least making certain we've recovered everything we can."

"Lord Jerrik. You've got your brother, a golem, and a passel of research telling you how to make your golems more effective. Consider it a win and let's get _going."_

"Listen to him, Jerrik," Brogan said. "We have to get out."

Jerrik looked torn, but after a moment he said, "You're right. Let's go."

Loghain expected Shale to grumble about putting the silent golem to work enlarging the cave-in that led to the surface, but she merely sniffed and said that such menial tasks were well-suited to such an inferior specimen. The golem obediently dug away at the rocks and crumbled ceiling until the hole was large enough for all, including the golem and Snug the bronto, to exit. They all climbed out via the pile of loose rubble, cautiously, Loghain last.

"We'll have to seal this hole somehow," he said, as he clambered out of the ground with his grim burden on his shoulder. "A task for later. Let's find a place to make camp and try to figure out where we are exactly."

"What are you going to do with…?" Elilia asked, and gestured to the shroud.

"Build a pyre. Not a state funeral, perhaps, but the best we can do for him at the moment."

"Not afraid you'll start these trees on fire?"

"I smell Lake Calenhad. We'll build the pyre on the lakeshore."

Elilia sniffed the air. "I don't smell anything."

"With this nose, I can smell the lake from Denerim. Trust me, it's nearby."

She put her arms around his neck and kissed the tip of his nose. "I like your nose," she said.

"You can use it as shelter when it rains."

"Stop being mean to yourself."

"_Someone _has to be."

"You're still blaming yourself for Chatterly's death." It was not a question.

"Shouldn't I? He didn't even have any business _being_ there."

"And I'm the one who told you to let him come, so the fault is mine."

He put his arms around her waist and rested his forehead briefly against hers. "I am responsible for the lives under my command."

"Chatterly wasn't your soldier."

"And that makes it worse. I should have been more cautious."

"You stayed directly in front of him all the way through the Deep Roads. You _couldn't _have been more cautious."

"If there weren't room for improvement he'd be alive right now."

"Darling. Shit happens."

He sighed, but made no attempt to argue the assertion. He shouldered his burden again and led the way through the woods to the lakeshore.

"Can you tell where we are?" Elilia asked. In response, Loghain pointed south. Far away, on the furthest edge of vision, the smooth surface of the great lake was broken by a dark shape. "What's that?"

"Redcliffe castle," Loghain responded. "Ten, eleven miles away as the crow flies. We're fortunate we seem to have arisen on the west bank of the lake. It won't take us long at all to take Masters Jerrik and Brogan home."

He lowered Chatterly's body to the rocky ground. "Why don't you and the others find a place nearby where we can pitch camp? I'll take care of this."

"Right. Looking for a campsite…upwind. You sure you don't want someone to help you with this?"

"I'm sure."

"All right." She hesitated only a moment before turning to the others and gesturing them on. Loghain waited until they were out of sight and then began to gather dry driftwood and brush for the pyre. He knew it would not have to be a particularly big stack. He had no oil with which to increase the temperature of the blaze, but he wasn't worried about an incomplete incineration. The flames he breathed were hotter on their own than any oil fire he'd ever witnessed.

He built a low brushwood bier and laid the body, bedroll and all, upon it. He stood over it for a moment, thinking he ought to say something, but no words occurred to him. Finally he simply breathed in deeply and let it out in a plume of boiling flame.

He watched the pyre burn down, a process that took considerably less time than an ordinary funeral pyre. When there was nothing left but black ash and embers he took the short-handled camp shovel from his pack and began to shovel the still-smoldering remains into the lake. It was common practice for lakeshore dwellers to bury their dead in the water; in Redcliffe the pyres were set on small wooden boats that were allowed to burn until the water put out the fire. Loghain understood as few others did the reason why the fishermen who plied the dark waters pulled up such famous great lunkers, fish bigger at times than the boats that went out in search of them. Lake Calenhad fish were well-fed on half-burnt human remains.

Loghain never ate fish pulled from Lake Calenhad.

Elilia came back through the woods as he stood staring out at the lake, the shovel on his shoulder. He'd finished disposing of the remains.

"Is everything okay?" she asked.

"Yeah. Just wool-gathering," he answered. "Why? What did you come back for?"

"For you, partly. Mostly for the camp shovel, though. We can't dig our latrine without it, and Oghren is making ominous noises. No one wants to deal with that."

He handed it over. "I'm not quite done here."

"What's left to do?"

"Just one last thing."

The lakeshore was surrounded by red sandstone bluffs. Loghain went to the cliff face of one of these bluffs and took out his skinning knife. Elilia watched as he carved words into the soft stone with considerable ferocity.

"Do you really think that's true?" she asked, when he finished.

"Who's to say it's not?" he said. He replaced his knife in his belt and put an arm around her shoulders. "Let's go."

They walked away. The monument he left behind was hardly permanent, but he'd cut it deep enough into the friable stone to last a very long time indeed, barring landslides. The deep-cut words said:

HERE WAS LAID TO REST SABINE OF TREMMES, "CHATTERLY," AN ELF TOUCHED BY THE MAKER'S HAND.


	89. Chapter 89

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** Not happy with this chapter, but at the very least it represents the end of all game content that I felt I needed to bring into the story, right or wrong. From here on out it should be mostly a matter of tying up multitudinous loose ends, which is going to take some work.

* * *

**Chapter Eighty: A Golem's Memories**

"I thank you for seeing us back home," Jerrik said. "The surface is…disconcerting, to say the least. I'm not sure we could have made it back on our own."

"Pray don't mention it. What now for you?" Loghain asked.

Jerrik sighed heavily. "It's going to take time for Brogan to get over Amgarrak. I'm not so sure I don't need a little time myself. I suppose we'll take it easy for awhile, and work on these research notes we found. It doesn't make up for the lives that were lost, but at least we salvaged something from that place. The golems we are able to improve with this knowledge will serve as the best tribute we can make to our men."

They were invited to stay as guests of House Dace, but everyone was eager to move on. Before they could leave Orzammar, however, Shale approached Loghain and Elilia privately.

"I wonder if I might talk with you about _memories," _she said.

"You were hoping a return to the Deep Roads might spark some," Elilia said. "Did it work?"

"Somewhat. I recall a place called Cadash Thaig, but I do not remember its significance to me. I was hoping perhaps we might go there."

"Where is this Cadash Thaig, Shale? Do you even know?"

"Yes, I do. It is not far from Caridin's Cross. I could lead us there easily."

Elilia looked at Loghain. "I don't think anyone would be very enthused to go back into the Deeps, Shale," she said.

"I swear it would not take long. If I remember nothing further when we get there, we will turn around and go home."

"This means a lot to you," Loghain said.

"If you could not remember a large portion of your past, would not the discovery of such be of immense importance to _you?"_

"It wasn't a question, Shale. I'll go with you, though I don't relish the idea of going back into the Deep Roads. The others may prefer to go home."

"Well, if you're going _I'm_ going," Elilia said.

"We'll ask if anyone else will come. I wouldn't like to make a repeat journey into the Deeps without a healer at the least."

"I thank you for this," Shale said. It did not escape either of their notice that the golem had stopped referring to them as "it." "For creatures of flesh, you are excellent…what is the word I am searching for? _'Friends?'"_

"We _are_ friends, Shale," Elilia said. "You have been good to us as well."

"It is strange to me. I do not remember ever having friends, and yet I feel I must consider you as such. If you are _not_ my friends then it makes little sense that you would follow me on my quest. It is doubtful that there is anything of value to you to be found in Cadash Thaig."

"The Wardens may find it valuable. Their aid would be welcome," Elilia said.

"We can but ask. Come; let's not waste time being about it," Loghain said. "The longer we leave Harvest with your brother, the greater the chances we'll find him eaten alive."

"Oh, don't even jest."

They returned to the others. "So that's what _we're_ up to," Elilia said, as she finished explaining. "We could use some help, but we won't take it personally if you don't come with us. Amgarrak was enough for anyone."

"Well, if we can reach a new thaig, information about it would be good for the Wardens to have, and Maker only knows what could be down there," Nathaniel said. "We will go with you."

"After what we saw in Amgarrak, I'm not letting you go it alone," Laz said. "Even if there aren't any monsters there could be traps. Me an' Paragon are in."

"A golem's search for meaning in life? Color me intrigued," Varric said.

"If I can be of any help at all, I am happy to lend my aid," Bethany Hawke said.

"We're in," her sister said, with an arm over Merrill's shoulders. Champion barked, and Haakon followed suit. They were in, too. Loghain felt oddly touched by this unanimous show of solidarity, and hid it as usual behind gruffness.

"It might be every bit as dangerous as Amgarrak. Don't throw your lot in with us unless you're sure you can handle it."

"We came through what we faced in Amgarrak because we faced it together," Merrill said. "We all know the danger. What happened to poor Chatterly could easily happen again to any of us. But friends stick together, no matter what. Right?"

"Right," Elilia said, and stuck her hand out. One by one, the others all piled their hands on top of it, even Shale. Last to move, Loghain at last put his hand on the pile.

"It surprises you, doesn't it? Having friends," Elilia whispered to him as the group set out.

"Always. I guess they're just something you find even when you're not looking."

"That's the glory of it. Friends are a luxury even the poorest can afford, and even an old grump like you can scarcely undervalue them."

"I have spent my entire life undervaluing my friends," he said.

"No you haven't. You've tried to, but you can't."

Caridin's Cross was, thankfully, still mostly empty from their earlier passage. Shale led them in a direction they'd hardly explored before, and found a narrow fissure left behind from an ancient rockslide.

"This is the passage to Cadash Thaig," she said. "I am sure of it. Give me a moment only to enlarge the opening so that we may pass."

They all stood back and watched as the golem began ripping away the loose stones. Thankfully the rest of the rock around the slide seemed stable enough, and not soon to enclose them in an underground tomb. In a matter of minutes Shale had opened the passage so that they could clearly see the corridor beyond. Oddly, though the tunnel they were in appeared natural, the newly opened tunnel showed signs of dwarven architecture and pavement.

Shale led the way forward. There were darkspawn in the new tunnel, gibbering madly but easily dispatched by the strong party. They followed the corridor as it wound through the rock, and finally they came to a wider, more open area lined with houses. It was strange, but the green moss on the stones looked like soft, short grass. It gave the thaig a surface look that other thaigs in Loghain's experience lacked. It was…almost nice. If not for the feeling of long-abandonment.

Of course the place was not thoroughly abandoned. They encountered hordes of darkspawn, and several packs of deepstalkers. The going was tough, but they had the right team for the job, with plenty of magic and plenty of muscle. At various places along the way Shale paused, caught in the grip of a memory. It was clear that she knew the thaig, though how and why were still unclear.

They fought and wound their way through the thaig until they came near the end of the place. A tall statue with memorial plaque stood near the corridor leading out.

"I've seen a stone like that before," Elilia said. "It's a memorial to the volunteers of the golem project."

"Let's take a look," Loghain said.

"Look at that, there's a familiar-looking name," Bethany said. "Shayle of House Cadash."

"What? Let me see," Shale said. She pushed her way to the front of the group. "Yes_. Yes. _That was I…Shayle, of House Cadash. I was a woman."

"You knew that was how golems are made," Elilia reminded gently.

"To know is one thing, but to _remember _is quite another," Shale said. "This is…tremendous. And not entirely a comfortable feeling."

"You were a member of the noble house that founded this thaig," Loghain said. "You must have been a passionate warrior, to volunteer yourself for such a drastic act."

"It seems I have much to think on," Shale said. "Let us depart this place and go home. I thank you again for coming with me. It…means a great deal to me."

"That's what friends are for, Shale," Elilia said.


End file.
